The Luck of the Draw
by slimwhistler
Summary: Josh and Donna juggle the twists and turns of parenthood...New chapter 04.24.05
1. Default Chapter

Title: The Luck of the Draw

Author: slimwhistler

Rating: PG/PG-13

Part: 1/?

Disclaimers: They aren't mine, unfortunately, apart from a few originals...they belong to Sorkin and Wells

Spoilers: Ummm...Anything

Summary: Josh and Donna deal with an unexpected addition to their family.

Feedback: Please!!!!! With a cherry on top! This is my first fic ever, and I really enjoy writing it. So let me know if you enjoy it,

Author's Notes: Major kudos to my beta, Caitlin, for her enthusiastic encouragement and assistance and for reaching out to a newbie author such as myself. Thanks also to my friends and family for putting up with my spouting of random WW trivia all summer. Thanks to all the great writers out there, too; reading was so fun, it made me want to try creating my own story!

Archive: Sure, but please let me know!

P. S.: If you've never seen the classic Tootsie Pop commercial with the cartoon owl and all, it'll be hard to get the ending.

Thanks to whoever came up with that, too!

* * *

Numbly, almost blindly, I follow Lanie into the lobby, my heart pounding so hard I can hear the echo in my ears. "Aidan? Adi, honey?" The boy swings around, and my chest constricts as I look into the eyes of my oldest son. The son, until recently, I never knew I had.

* * *

Until recently, my life had been following the pattern that I've come to accept as normal. Make no mistake, I'm not unhappy by any definition, but lately, well, life hasn't been very obliging, I guess you could say.

Of course, I'm married to Donna, if you haven't already guessed. She and I have always been on the same weird wavelength, and honestly, I don't think I could live without her. Especially now.

Until last year, the best adjective to describe our life was, smugness and syrup be damned, well, idyllic. I really mean it. Three great kids, a fabulous house, a senate seat for me, and a journalism career for Donna; she's a features editor for _Cosmopolitan, _and I couldn't be prouder. Hell, the only accomplishments she's achieved that make me happier are our children.

Eliza is our youngest. She's four, as blond and blue-eyed as Donna, with a sunny nature and a mouth that runs nonstop. Samuel, or Sandy, is six. He's more a mix of Donna and me: dark blond, with hazel eyes, and, to his mother's intense pleasure and my chagrin, the infamous Lyman dimples. I'm not saying they aren't as cute as heck, but I know how much he'll hate them when he's older. Plus, he can turn either the dimples or Donna's pout on at the slightest provocation, so he usually gets what he wants. Not that he's spoiled though, never that. Apart from a serious mischievous streak, he's a quiet kid, coming out with the greatest questions. He also has, as a courtesy of his Lyman genes, a tendency to brood. The situation with Norah hasn't helped any in that department either.

Norah. My spitfire. Smart, sassy, and, by the tender age of three, able to argue her way out of everything. Donna always says that I must have been so eager during Norah's conception that her genes somehow got bypassed. I can see her point. The child bears a striking resemblance to me physically as well, except, thanks to Donna, I think, more refined, somehow, if that makes any sense. Delicate, I guess. She's got my eyes and angular nose, which always sports a dusting of tiny golden freckles. From the day she was born, I've never seen anything more beautiful. She's a lot like Donna in temperament, though: she knows how to keep her dad organized and how to handle me when I start to get demanding and blustery. She does have my flash of temper, though, and isn't afraid to use it when she's displeased. I haven't heard such vehement "telling-offs" since the days when Donna had to suffer through the agonies of hair brushing with her. Of course, Donna can blame me for that, too: Norah's hair is every bit as unruly as mine, this great, thick, curly, reddish-brown. Sometimes, I think, Donna regards it with something between despair and jealousy. Not that anybody has to worry on that score anymore, at the moment.

Cancer. When we got the news last year, I was dumbstruck. I mean, here I am, the former "bulldog of the Bartlet administration," used to browbeating anyone, anything, into submission if need be, and there was nothing I could do. Not one single, damned thing. It was a horrible realization, one I had promised myself since her birth that I would never allow myself to experience. Unfortunately, over the past few months, I've had to get used to it. I hate it, every second, but for once I'm completely and utterly helpless, and, though I would never admit it to anyone, incredibly shaky. Norah's my girl, my first.

Which is why the thing with Aidan threw me so violently.

* * *

"Hey there, Donnatella."

She spins to face me as I plant a kiss on the back of her neck. "Joshua! What have I told you about kissing me when I'm hunched over a pot of boiling water?

"Um, that you enjoy the thrill?"

"No, that isn't it at all, and you know it. Although it is nice to see you smirking again. God knows I never imagined myself saying _that_."

I sober quickly. "Did you see her today?"

"Of course, Josh. Why else do I now work from home?"

"Hey! I was just asking, you know!"

Donna rubs her hand across her face. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Josh. It's just; she had another round of chemo today. It wasn't a good day."

I wrap her in a bear hug. "I'm sorry, honey. I know. You need a break..."

She cuts me off. "A break? You think a break will help?"

"No, I'm just saying, maybe you should take the kids out somewhere, or, I don't know, ask CJ for the weekend. Just _something_, Donna. Speaking of the munchkins," I say, raising my voice, "where are they, anyway?"

From upstairs I hear Eliza's happy shriek, followed by the pounding of feet on the stairs. I catch her up and twirl her as she skids into the kitchen. "Daddy!"

"Hey, Minnie."

"_Daddy_..."

"Honestly, Josh, do you want to give the girl a complex?"

"Well, Donna, it's not my fault she looks just like you, now is it?"

"Well, it kinda is..."

Thankfully, Eliza interrupts this conversation with a question. "Mommy, what's a complex?"

Before Donna's tired mind is subjected to Eliza's favorite "why, what, where" game, I ask quickly, "Liza, where's Sandy?"

"In his room, Daddy. He's sad again."

Shooting a quick glance at Donna, I head for the stairs, take them two at a time, and knock softly on Sandy's door. "Hey Sand-man? It's Dad. Can I come in?"

I take the muffled sound I hear through the door for assent and enter his room. My son is sitting on the edge of the bed, in his ball gear, sniffling. "Hiya, Slugger, what's up?"

He turns toward me, tears running down his face. "I'm not a slugger, Daddy. I'm not even gonna play in the game this weekend, probably. I can't do _anything_ right," he sobs despairingly.

These kids break my heart, they really do. "Sandy, you know I don't care if you play or not, right? Just try your best, buddy, and have fun. It's supposed to be _fun_. And you do lots of things well, like drawing, and piano. You know, when I tell people that the drawing in my office is yours, they're amazed. They think its Norah's, at _least_."

He had begun to perk up as I talked of his drawing, but at Norah's name his face fell once again. "Daddy, is Norah gonna die?"

Now, Donna and I discussed this. We're not going to lie to the kids, or make promises, just soften the truth as much as possible. Eliza's too young to understand, really, but Sandy can, up to a point. And if he can't, many at his school, unfortunately, are only too happy to try and explain it to him. "Who told you that, kiddo?"

"Tommy and Peter. They said their mommies said..."

"Listen to me, Samuel Noah. Norah's pretty sick, but Mommy and I, and Dr. Feldman, you met him, remember, well, we're doing everything we can to make sure she gets better really soon. She's trying hard too."

He considered this. "Daddy, does everybody die?"

"Yeah, everybody does, sometime."

"Even you and Mommy?" he asks plaintively.

"Yeah, kiddo, even me and Mommy."

"Soon?" he wails.

" I sure hope not. Neither of us plans to go anywhere for a long, long time, okay?"

Sandy flings himself against me, and I settle him in my lap, kissing his hair. "Okay?" I ask.

"Uh-huh."

"Daddy?"

"What, kiddo?"

"Do you think, when Norah gets better, she'll come to my games?"

"I know she will. You know what I think would make her happy now, though? You should draw her a picture. She could hang it up in her room where she'd see it. There's no reason why I should be the only one to brag about the great Sandy Lyman, world famous artist."

"Daddy, you're silly!" he giggles.

"Darn right," I say. "You too. Now, can we get ready for dinner already? Mom made spaghetti."

"Yay!"

"Scoot," I say, giving him a nudge.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Sandy?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, kiddo. I love you too." In order to try and control the lump forming in my throat, I mumble, "Dinner soon."

He's so involved in going about his business; he doesn't hear me, which is just as well. I go out of his room and lean my back against the wall, trying to extract a measure of comfort from the familiar technique. Except, this time it doesn't work, and I slide down against the wall, wrapping my hands around my knees, shaking and fighting against tears. All I can think of is a little girl with Sandy's eyes, Joanne's eyes, lying in a hospital bed, and the same eyes staring out at me from a photograph of a boy I've never known, never been able to comfort.

Bracing myself, I head down to dinner, knowing the tranquility that has, at least temporarily, settled on my home will shatter in a few hours, when I tell Donna.

* * *

Four days later, Donna and I sit down with Sam, CJ, Danny, and Toby. I had to twist a few arms, but even an annoyed Toby got the message when he realized that my tone was quiet, without its usual, ah, _forcefulness_, we'll call it.

"Okay, guys, thanks for coming. Ah...so. So, here's the thing..." God, what an eloquent beginning. I can do this. I swallow hard, and lace my fingers with Donna's. "Um, do you guys know who I mean when I say Lanie Whittaker?"

"Lanie?" Sam pipes up. "Wow, I haven't seen her in forever. How's she doing?"

"Wait a sec," interjects CJ. "Lamie. The Lanie who was the college girlfriend, the one long-term relationship besides Donna you had that you didn't irreparably screw up? The one girl who you didn't just plow into sideways without realizing it? Foreign Service Lanie? That Lanie?"

"Yes, CJ, and thank you for that brisk and rosy summary of my love life."

"Any time, mi amor."

Toby's been watching silently, intently. No father loves his children more fiercely than Toby Ziegler; he knows the haunted look in my eyes intimately. In typical Toby-like fashion, he cuts to the chase: "Josh, what's this about?"

"Um, yeah. Well, Lanie's not doing so good. Heart disease. She only has a couple months left. And...and, she's not alone. She's got a kid, a son. Aidan. Adi. He's mine. He's my son."

"Josh." It's Sam. "How come you didn't tell us?"

"Because, I didn't _know_, Sam! She never told me.

Never! His name's not even Lyman. She told him who I was when he was twelve. He's known longer than I have."

I look around and see the questions on their faces. I sigh, and run my hands through my hair. "It was before Gaza. She and I, well, we parted on good terms in college, we were both alone, and busy, we cared about each other, were comfortable with one another, so we just, you know, were together. Our relationship, well, we just called each other up. We never stayed in touch in between, really. We just didn't. Then Gaza, then Donna and I got together, then marriage, and, you know. She sent congratulations, and then she got posted abroad, and I haven't heard from her since. Until a few days ago, that is. There's nobody for him. Her family's gone, and all the close friends are overseas. So. That leaves us."

"Well, she's got a lot of nerve. How can she just, you know, not tell you, and then ask you to pick up the pieces after fourteen years, Josh?"

"She's dying, CJ," Donna reminds softly, speaking for the first time. She squeezes my hand. "She loves him, and she's scared."

"Yeah, but how can you just not tell someone that they have a son?" Sam again.

"I guess it turns out to be pretty easy there, Spanky," CJ shoots back testily.

"Guys, stop. Let them finish."

I nod at Toby in thanks. "Well, you know, with being Deputy, and then Congress, and Senate, she just didn't want to make things harder for me. I don't like it, but I can understand it. She was just trying to protect me, and him, too."

"Yeah, well what about the poor kid now? How is this poor kid gonna cope with his mother dying, moving in with a father he's never known, in a new country, practically? And what about the kids? You've got so much going on, with Norrie in the hospital, and you say Sandy's clinging to you in tears all the time now. What's this gonna do to them? Their world's already been turned upside down fifteen times over! Huh?"

CJ might sound sort of harsh, but it's indignation at the situation, not the people, and on my behalf. She's trying to process it in her own way. I know this, because I know her.

"So, what's next, Josh?" Toby.

Our eyes lock. "He's my kid, Toby."

He nods. "Okay then."

"What can we do, Josh?"

I look at Danny. I see the friend, not the reporter. I don't even need to ask him to keep this quiet for the moment.

"Well, we were thinking. We want to talk to Norah, go up to Manchester afterwards. Could you guys maybe take the kids for a while?"

"Of course."

"Norah's got chemo on Monday, Josh. I don't want her to be alone. Maybe we should-"

"I'll go."

The look Donna gives Toby is so heartbreaking, it makes _me_ want to start bawling. He nods. It's right. Toby's the one. He's Norah's godfather. Not that any of them would refuse, but Toby will just _be. _As only Toby can be.Quiet. Calm. A comfort.

"Thank you." I look at each of them in turn. The room is silent. With friends like these, words become unnecessary.

* * *

He's a good kid. Which is why, a few months down the line, I'm surprised to get a call from his school, saying he's been in a fight. Norah's been worse lately; Donna's even less comfortable about not having one of us with her. So I go, and, regretfully, the Lyman temper isn't as reined in as I like it these days. In fact, by the time I get to the office, I barely look at Adi; I just give him a glare before I stalk in the door.

"Mrs. Cooper? I'm Joshua Lyman, Aidan Whittaker's father. He was in a fight?"

"Mr. Lyman. Thank you for coming in. I know you must be busy."

"Well, yes, I am, but that's rather beside the point now, isn't it? What happened?"

"Well, of course I wasn't present when the incident occurred, Mr. Lyman, but from what I can gather, some boys were taunting Aidan."

"Taunting?" I can barely believe it. "This is about taunting? Why didn't the kid just walk away, for Christ's sake?"

"He did, Mr. Lyman. Until they said something about, ah, his being an unwanted stray, that his mother just picked you, and you only accepted him to save political face."

I can feel my blood begin to boil. "That is the most, the most...preposterous thing I've ever heard. Have they even looked at him? He looks exactly like me! And even if he didn't, regardless of anything, what right have they to question... I didn't even know until his mother...until... do they think that if I'd known I would have..."

She spoke softly. "I realize that, Mr. Lyman, just as I am cognizant of the fact that this is a new country for Adi, as well as a new home. I'm also aware of your eldest daughter's sickness." As I stiffen, she continues. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lyman. I can't imagine how difficult it must be. I won't pretend to. I wouldn't have mentioned it except, well, all of these things have an effect on Adi, and perhaps, with everything, you and your wife haven't noticed it as you otherwise would."

"Mrs. Cooper, are you implying that I am not concerned with my son's well-being? Let me tell you something. I have loved each of my children since the first second I saw them, including Aidan. I would never, ever, willingly neglect them, and it kills me, that through no fault of my own, that that is exactly what has happened with Adi!"

"I can see that, Mr. Lyman. Perhaps it would help if Adi could see that as well."

"Yeah." I put my head in my hands. How the hell do I deal with this? I let him down, just like I let them all down. I couldn't fix it, any of it, for any of them. I wish Donna were here.

"Now, taking into account the extenuating circumstances, and the fact that Adi did attempt to walk away, I've decided to dispense with any severe disciplinary measures. This time. I can't afford to be this generous again. You can take him home with you now, and we'll see him on Monday."

"I will. Thank you, Mrs. Cooper. Thanks for understanding."

As I turn to leave, she speaks again. "He's a wonderful boy, Mr. Lyman. All things considered, he's handling everything exceptionally well. I don't mean to sound as if I'm preaching, but I'd hate for anything like this to get in his way. He's too special for that."

I give her my little half-smile as I let her words sink in. "Yeah."

* * *

By the time we get out to the car, however, any warm feelings Mrs. Cooper aroused in me have been replaced by anger. He _is_ too smart to pull a stunt like this, and he damn well knows it! Never mind that I often do the exact same thing, never mind the little voice in my head telling me I'm unreasonable; by the time we get home I'm so angry I can barely see. Adi's just sitting there, scuffing his shoe against the floor covering, not saying anything, not fighting, not explaining. For some irrational reason, this makes me even angrier. I explode.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Adi? What the hell were you thinking? You know better than that. I know you do, and I know damn well your mother made sure you knew, too. Jesus! I just, I can't handle...Jesus, Lanie! How...Aidan, you knew what those little pricks were saying was complete bullshit! Why in God's name didn't you just keep on walking? Why?"

"Because I _don't_ know that! I don't!" he blazes.

I'm dumbfounded. "Adi-"

"No, _you_ listen for a second! Do you think I don't know exactly who you are, Josh? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm not, and neither is my mother. I know exactly how good a politician you are. And my mother knows. And my mother doesn't lie, she doesn't conceal, she...didn't," he ends quietly. "So she must've had a reason not to tell you. Why would she do something like that if she didn't have a reason? She wouldn't have done that. She wouldn't!" He ends on a wail, a wail heartbreakingly young for a fourteen year-old boy. I am speechless.

Outside, it has begun to rain, with lightning and wind. Inside, all I can hear are the sounds of my son's choked sobs and labored breathing. I can't say anything, because a cold, clammy sheen of sweat has begun to coat my body, and soon I begin to shiver, though not from the cold. Adi misinterprets my silence; he slams out of the car after spitting out a vehement "_Asshole!" _I stay, and watch helplessly as he runs into the storm, too stunned to move. He's gone. I failed him, and he's gone. The front door opens. Donna. _Donna_. Thank God.

"Josh? I didn't hear the car. What happened? There was a message... I called the school... they told me some... Josh? JOSH! Relax. Relax, Josh. I'm here it's okay. It's okay, Josh. What happened? Where's Adi? Josh, it's pouring, he could get sick. Where is he? Josh, please!"

"He ran," I gasp out, allowing the present, Donna's face, to become my focus. "The woods...he doesn't think, doesn't think I _want_ him, Donna, doesn't know... that it's the last thing, _ever_..."

"Josh, go after him. Now, before it's too late. You can't freeze up on him now, Josh. You can't." She yanks open the car door, pulls my arm. "Josh! GO! NOW! I nod, and her face softens. "I'll be here."

* * *

The sodden earth is slick under my dress shoes. I could care less. All I need right now is a redheaded, hazel-eyed kid. He's not erratic and explosive like me, he's a steady, sure flame, one that would rather help than blaze and hinder, and the last thing I want is to have that change, have that be my fault too. Suddenly, I see something. Adi. I stand in the cold mud and let the rain pour over my face. Under his tree, he hears me. His jeans are soaked and muddy; half of his cranberry-red shirt collar is sticking our from under a blue sweater beaded with glistening rain. His usually buoyant curls are plastered down over his forehead, and his face is streaked with tears and naked misery; it's devoid of the detached teenage mask he often affects. It's the most miraculous thing. _He_ is. Beats the Ave Maria like nobody's business.

"Don't ever think I don't want you, Adi. I swear to God, if I had known, if I'd had the faintest inkling, nothing and nobody would have kept me away, you understand? When something's important to me, nothing gets in my way. You want to know stuff about me, start with that. Adi, I don't know what your mother was thinking, I don't, other than what she told us, and there was probably more, some of which even she probably didn't realize. But whatever her reasons, she did what she did because she loved you, and don't ever think any different. And I love you, too, and no matter what stupid-ass things you might do, I'll always want you, always love you so much I won't know what to do about it. Always. Even if you vote Republican."

Despite my attempt at levity, he looks as if his heart's breaking into fifteen million pieces, so I give him what's been coming to him fourteen years and more: I pull him into my arms and rock him, and you know what, he's so damn tired, he lets me.

* * *

Later that night, an exhausted boy wakes to the muffled strains of the Ave Maria. He creeps downstairs from his attic bedroom, realizing that he is not the only one who has noticed the music. He melts into the shadows as Donna makes her way to the living room, then follows, curious.

* * *

In this house, the Ave Maria means one thing: brooding. Josh prefers to call it introspection, but trust me, it's brooding.

"Josh?"

He's hunched over, resting his chin in his hands. "Josh?" He turns to me with that haunted, faraway look in his eyes, the one that was there after the shooting, after Gaza. And although I know the answer very well, I still ask the question: "Whatcha doing, Joshua?"

"Just thinkin'" he replies, scrubbing his hand through his hair.

I can never resist that, so I go sit next to him on the couch and smooth it back into place. "Yeah? What about?"

"Stuff."

"What are you, Josh, six? Elucidate." I say it softly, though, and rub my hand in circles on his back.

"Yeah, maybe, I guess," he says huskily.

"Come on, Josh, spill it. I'm too tired to poke it out of you, and I don't feel like twisting your ear, either. Now, you're sitting here being broody, and I can't help you when you're broody unless you talk. You know you'll feel better afterwards, Joshua," I add more softly.

"Broody? Donna, you make me sound like a mother hen," he says snarkily.

Good. "I wouldn't say mother hen so much as, maybe, a soft-shell crab." At his incredulous look, I continue. "You know, tough on the outside, with threatening pincers, but tender underneath. Actually," I ramble, "I think the name might have more to do with the way they're cooked than biology."

"Well, you were the biology major," he smirks. "Honestly, Donna, can't I be something more manly, more suave? You know, like a panther. I would've made a great panther," he affirms.

"Newsflash, Joshua: Debate skills wouldn't have helped much when push came to shove in the jungle. And you are not an outdoorsman."

"I so am," he sputters indignantly.

"No, Josh," I say calmly.

"Go away," he grumbles.

"Impervious."

"Tell me again why I married you?"

After a resounding smack, I say, "Because you couldn't live any longer without the witty repartee, useful trivia, and organization I bring to your life. I, on the other hand, married _you _as a way to become a martyr for the local gomer population. They needed my protection."

"Nah. Honestly, I think your trivia fetish works better than a wedding ring or pepper spray, myself. You should patent the system. And that's saying a lot, you know, to consider myself second-best in any capacity."

"You know you're crazy for my trivia skills, Joshua."

Softly, "I'm crazy for _you_, Donnatella."

I kiss his cheek and snuggle closer. "Did I mention," I say after a moment, "that soft-shell crabs are extremely delectable? Succulent, even."

He grins. "Is that so?"

"Oh yeah, baby."

"Well, why don't we test that theory?"

"Not so fast, buster. As much as I have enjoyed yet another foray along the Lane of Misdirection, which, I admit, I instigated, I still want to know what's bothering you. Well, actually, I don't need to _know_; I already do. I just want to hear what you have to say about it."

"Hey!" he protests.

"Yes, Josh, in case you were wondering, you _are _utterly predictable. It's Adi, isn't it? What happened?"

"Well, actually, it's not really-"

I cut him off. "Josh."

He blows out an exasperated breath. "Yes, okay? It was Adi. We had the thing at the school, we got home, I was an insensitive ass, he said as much and more ran off, and I froze. 'Cause I realized I failed him, too. Just like everybody else."

"Josh, you have never truly failed anyone in your entire life. You're much more likely to go overboard in the opposite direction. Yeah, so you yelled at him, you were stupid, but you did it because you care. You're his father; it's what you were supposed to do. Just like you were supposed to run out of a burning house and make your father proud by succeeding at doing what you love."

"Yeah, but doing those things meant I wasn't there when they needed me."

"Josh, don't you think your sister and your father were happy that you survived, that you were doing what you were meant to do? Being with Joannie might have made you feel better, but you wouldn't be around now to realize it. And then you wouldn't have been around to comfort your father when he needed something else to think about besides the hell he was going through. And you know that if you had quit your job to be with him, he would have kicked your ass into next Tuesday. You _know _that, Josh."

"But how does any of that help Adi? He thought I didn't want him, Donna. He thought that we took him because we had to, because of the politics."

"Does he think that now?"

"Well, I told him no, but-"

"Josh, this is not in any way your fault. I of all people know that if you'd found out you'd have been on the next plane to wherever he was. Adi will realize that, too. It'll take some time, that's all. He's been through a lot, he has to deal with it, process it. Just like you did with everything, after..."

"You see, though? Every period of my life, when things are going right, something happens. First Joanie, then my dad, then getting shot and the damn PTSD, and now Norah. And Lanie. Adi. And I can't help thinking it's all because in some fundamental way I failed. And I failed him."

"Honestly, Josh, you're worse than a Tootsie Pop. How many times do I have to tell you before it penetrates into your thick skull: this is not your fault! Look, for each of those times you just listed, lots of good things happened to you. Your parents loved you, they went on to build a life for you, when Joanie's death might have crushed and embittered 'lesser mortals'. You got a good man elected to the presidency, and you helped millions of people. You still do. You got me. That alone proves you must have played your cards right somewhere along the way. And now you have Adi. You have a chance with him."

"Wait," he says slowly. "Are you suggesting that Adi makes up for Norah, is some sort of replacement for her? Damm it, Donna, he is not a trade!"

"Joshua, do not go there. Do not go one step farther. If you do, I swear...I carried her for nine months, Josh. I'm there with her every day. I feel every pain, and I would give anything to take that burden away from her. If you ever say _anything _like that to me ever again, Joshua Lyman, _anything_, I swear to God, I just might have to...don't touch me. Just... don't.

"Donna." There's that husky tone again, the one he only uses when something of great import has just transpired. "God, I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean that. You _know_ I didn't. Donna, please." He's wearing this crestfallen expression, simultaneous shock, horror, and pleading. Agony.

"Please, Donna. Hit me, scream at me, just don't freeze on me. Please don't turn away. I'd rather have you yelling at me, mad as a snake, than not... I can't, I can't...I _can't_," he chokes out desperately.

I manage a small smile through my tears. "There's no need to hyperventilate, Joshua; I'm quite used to you being an ass. Besides, I'd rather have a smirk from you than flowers any day." I pause to reconsider my statement. "Wait, let me rephrase that...When I said..."

He's grinning again. "Hey, no backtracking."

"You bet your ass I can backtrack. I can backtrack all I damn please. You're gonna owe me flowers every day for the next year, Lyman."

"Try 'the next century'."

"Don't you start being sweet. I'm trying to prove a point, and it's harder to do that when I'm not at least a little bit mad at you. All I was trying to say, before you started being, you know, a rather nasty version of _you_, (and here I pause for the reference) was look at the good things. We're successful. We have a great family, great friends. We can afford to give our daughter every chance. We have each other. And now we have Adi. And he's a great kid, Josh."

" I know. I guess I played another good game of cards, there."

"Yeah, you're a real shark."

"What is this, The Night of Metaphors? First I'm a crab, then a panther, and now I'm a shark."

"First of all, _I_ never said you were a panther. That was thanks to your own special brand of chronic delusion."

"Yeah, but you did call me a Tootsie pop back there. You can't deny it."

" I did. And I have no intention of denying it."

His grin is huge, dimples and all. "Tell me, Donna: Exactly how many licks _does _it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?"

"Only one way to find out."

* * *

Outside, the boy has been sitting against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees, unknowingly mimicking the position his father had assumed earlier. He hears them stirring and sprints soundlessly up to his bedroom. His eyes are bright with tears, but there's a smile on his face.


	2. The Luck of the Draw 2

The Luck of the Draw (2/?)

For Notes and Disclaimer, see Part 1

"Morning, Josh."

"Hey there, kiddo." I turn towards my eldest son. "Who are you, Jack the Ripper?"

Adi's got a thing for animals. He has three; he got them right after he and Lanie came back to the States, because he had to leave his pets in Italy behind. There's Dusty, a sweet Australian Shepherd, and Tux, a ferret Sandy adores.

And Toula. She's sitting on his shoulder, ruffling her green plumage. She's a character, some variety of an Amazon parrot. Recently schooled in parrot etiquette, I acknowledge her presence. "Good morning, Toula."

"Top of the mornin' to ya."

I smile as I walk down the hallway, and just as I'm about to ask Adi his plans for the day, Toula speaks once again: "Ya got a Tootsie Pop, Josh?"

Huh? Then I remember the ending of the heart-to-heart Donna and I had last night. I whirl around, my face already beet-red, and catch sight of Adi's grin as places Toula on a perch. "How the-...You little-"

At this point Sandy bounds up to us, with cheery greetings. But I have one thing, or rather one person, and one person only, in my radar. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction of Sandy, I tackle an unsuspecting Adi to the ground and tickle him mercilessly. His entire body writhes with the wild laughter and tears that only a serious tickle match can bring. Sandy dances around us in a circle, screaming "Tickle fight! Tickle fight!" at the top of his lungs, in between bouts of hysteria. I catch Adi in the eye and nod, and he grins in understanding. The two of us surge upward and grab Sandy, one at each end, and proceed to tickle him senseless. At this point, the shrieks get so loud that Toula begins to squawk and crow in distress, as well as in what I could swear is amusement.

"Gentlemen?"

The three of us look up from the floor to find Donna above us, her hands on her hips, wearing an expression of both exasperation and resignation.

"As much as I hate to break up this barbaric male bonding ritual, we do have a day. Joshua, take Samuel into the kitchen for his breakfast. Aidan, I suggest you take Toula upstairs and calm her down. She'll need it after being subjected to that testosterone-laden display, poor thing."

"Donna!" From the kitchen, to which Sandy and I have hastily withdrawn, I hear Adi's voice rise and break slightly from mortification.

"What? I know testosterone. I'm rather intimately acquainted with it, in fact."

"_Don-na!!!!"_ His voice scales higher and cracks dismally.

"You're messin' with the big leagues now, kid. Next time, don't go mocking things you're not supposed to hear about in the first place. Got that?" She pauses, then delivers her parting shot: "Oh, Adi? About the Tootsie Pop... the world still doesn't know."

All I can hear is the hasty pounding of retreating feet and Donna's soft chuckle.

* * *

CJ comes to kidnap Donna for a day of relaxation, and I drive into DC with the kids to visit Norah. As we walk through the corridors, I keep an eye on Adi. He spent a lot of time in the hospital during the last month with his mom; he had already moved in with us at that point. If this place bothers him, he does a damn fine job of hiding it.

We peek into Norah's room. She's sleeping fitfully; I know a nightmare when I see one. I put a finger to my lips as I glance at the kids, and then walk in the room.

I think I'm going to cry, or worse.

She's so pale. So tired. Her freckles stand out against her translucent skin, and I can see the pale blue veins in her eyelids. Tears trickle down her cheeks, but they don't wake her. I rub my face with my hand, and turn away for a moment. Adi catches my eye, and quickly distracts Sandy and Liza. I move closer to Norah and drop a kiss on her forehead. "Norah, sweetie, wake up."

Her eyes, with their long lashes, flutter open. "Daddy?"

"Hi, baby."

"_Daddy. _Oh, Daddy..."

"Shhh...I know, baby, I know. Calm down. It's over now. I'm here." I dry her tears, gently wiping her face with a tissue, and give her a hug. Looking towards the doorway, I see that despite Adi's best efforts, the eyes of my youngest two are wide with anxiety.

"Look who I brought to see you. Come on, guys, it's okay."

They enter timidly, followed at a distance by Adi. "Hi, Norrie," Sandy offers tremulously. He elbows Eliza, who hurriedly adds her own greetings. I grin at Sandy's brotherly efforts. My grin would be wider if Norah could do more than just smile in return, though.

"Well," I begin lamely. Adi jumps in, once more to the rescue.

"Sandy, don't you have something to show Norah?"

Sandy's smile brightens as he remembers the drawing clutched in his hands. But his face falls as he realizes that in the process of carrying it, it has become extremely wrinkled. His lips begin to quiver. Adi, sensing the coming outburst, grabs the drawing and places it between two books lying on a nearby shelf. "See, Sandy? It'll be fine."

Sandy refuses to be comforted and begins to cry, Liza joining him in sympathy. I consider the best way of handling this, but am saved when a nurse, Sara, walks into the room.

"Hi, Senator. Hi, guys. Doing okay over there, Norah?"

She nods weakly.

"Good. Ah, Senator?"

Everyone here is extremely reluctant to call me Josh, try as I might. "Yes?"

"Dr. Feldman would like to speak with you."

"He's here? On a Saturday?"

The look in her eyes speaks volumes. "Yeah."

Oh, God. I swallow hard. "Sure, yeah, okay. I just need to-"I gesture towards my sniffling children.

"I'll take them to Daycare. It might be a little while."

"Okay, ah..." I turn towards Norah.

"I'll stay." Adi says quietly.

"Yeah." As I leave the room, I place a hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze.

* * *

Man, this cannot be good. I know that look, the look on the nurse's face, Josh's face. It's not a good look.

I glance at the bed. Norah's eyes are closed again; I can't tell if she's asleep. She's really small under the covers.

I always wanted little brothers and sisters growing up. I wanted a big family, but it was just my mom and I. I tried to make up for it, though. I worked at the preschool and daycare at the American School in Rome, and I helped to coach a soccer team on weekends. I like kids. I guess that makes me weird, but I don't care.

Anyhow, I'm not really sure how to approach Norah. I know her even less than the rest of the family, for obvious reasons, and I'm just not...

"Adi?"

I look over at her. "Hey, bella Stella."

"Can I have some water?"

"Sure thing."

After I help her get settled back on her pillows, she asks, "'Bella' means beautiful, right? What was the other word again?"

"Stella. Star."

"Like stellar."

"Yeah." I'm surprised. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Mommy used it," she says simply.

Figures. I grin, which probably brings out my stupid dimples, because she says, "You look like Daddy. 'Specially when you smile."

I reach over to hold her hand. I can't help it. "So everyone says. So do you. You're prettier than he is, though." She actually giggles, and I get a warm feeling in my chest. I made her laugh!

So this is what being a big brother feels like.

"Do you miss your mom?"

Where did that come from? "You know about that?"

She gives me a 'are you stupid' look, then nods solemnly. "Mommy and Daddy told me."

"Yeah. I do. But I have you guys, though."

"Do you think it hurts to die?"

Uh oh. How do I handle this one? I go for honesty and a quick change of subject. "I don't know, sweetie. Hey! Did I tell you about my animals?" Real smooth.

She does this little half-smile thing that I've seen Josh do, like she knows exactly what trick I'm pulling, but she lets me off the hook. Thank goodness for that, 'cause what would I tell her? I am so not saying she might die. Apart from everything else, Josh would kill me. I refuse to think about it, anyway. So I tell her about the latest things I taught Toula, and how Sandy lost Tux for an hour this morning, instead.

* * *

A little while later, I look up and see Josh watching us. I just finished telling Norah about the wrestling match this morning, and she laughed a bit. Josh's eyes are moist. Jeez, what a softie.

Not that I blame him.

"Hi, Daddy!"

"Hey, lady. You guys having fun?"

"Uh-huh."

He shifts uncomfortably. "Norah, honey... you're gonna have chemo today."

Her impossibly large eyes fill with tears, but all she utters is a single, soft, heart-wrenching, "Daddy."

Josh's jaw twitches, and he stares at the floor. I go and lean against the doorframe. I feel like I shouldn't be watching this.

"But I just _had_ it, Daddy!"

"I know, baby, but..."

"And I'm so tired!" She wails. "I'm tired, Daddy. I'm tired. I'm...tired," she whispers softly. And then she starts crying. Josh is across the room in two seconds. He cradles her against his chest and rocks her, murmurs softly. It looks like he's trying to shield her with his body.

I can't take it any more. I quickly walk outside and lean against the wall again.

I know it's pointless to say, but...this is so not fair!

* * *

A few minutes later I hear Josh come out and stand next to me. I ask him point-blank: "Josh, what's going on?"

He looks at me, measuring. Then he sighs, and rubs his hand through his hair. "The chemo and radiation aren't working, not as well as we'd like."

"So what else can they do?"

"Well, it's leukemia, so they can try a bone marrow transplant."

"That's good, though, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but it'll make her even more susceptible to infection, and she's already so weak... They want to see if they can do it anyway, though. They're gonna try intensive therapy for the next few days, and if nothing gets any better, we're gonna have to start looking for a donor." He pauses. "I'm going to stay here. She doesn't handle it well, after. Why should she?" he spits out bitterly. "Can you take the kids home? I'll get you guys a cab, and...Oh, _shit!_"

I look at him. "What?"

"Sandy's game. I promised him..._shit!"_

"I'll take him. If Donna can't get home, I'll take both of them. In a cab," I elaborate.

He's getting all worked up. "No, you don't understand. He's not that good, he might not get to play, he's really sensitive about it..."

He's getting panicky, and he's got that glassy look from yesterday. I caught it just before I ran out of the car. "Josh. I said I would do it. He'll understand. I'll make him understand. Do you want me to call Donna, too?"

"Yeah. No. Yeah. No...it's the first day she's had to herself in weeks... she'll _kill_ me if I don't tell her..."

I decide. "I'll call her."

"No, I should... You shouldn't have to..."

"Jeez, Josh, you can't even talk in complete sentences! I'm calling her." He looks at me, torn. "Josh. Get the kids."

"Yeah."

* * *

I'm enjoying myself. I'm _enjoying_ myself. Much as I hate to admit it, Josh was right. This is most definitely rejuvenating. Not that a part of me doesn't feel like crap, being out in the sunshine when my daughter's in the hospital, but...oops, there's my phone. I bet Josh can't find Sandy's shoes. I don't know how many times I've told him...

"Hello? Adi? What's the matter? Where's Josh? What? Oh, god...okay...yeah. Yeah. What? All right. What about the kids? Sandy has a...are you sure? I know Josh promised him...you're sure...I really should go, but I need to...okay...thanks, sweetheart...I appreciate it...I'll try and round up some people to come...tell Josh I'll be there as soon as I can. Thanks. Bye."

"Donna?" CJ looks at me with concern.

"Norah needs more chemo."

"But I thought..."

"It's not working. She needs more. Adi said something about a bone marrow transplant...the doctor talked to Josh...Adi says he's freaking out. I need to go. I need to go _now_. I need a cab, I..."

"Donna, stop. What about the kids? What do you need?"

"Adi's got them. He's taking them home in a cab. Thank God for that boy. I don't know what we'd do now without...CJ, there is something you can do. Sandy's got a game today. You know how he is right now. Could you round up as many people as possible to go? Adi's going, but Josh promised him he would..."

"Don't worry, Donna. We'll handle it. Everything will be fine. Just fine."

She sounds so sure. How can she be so sure?

Damn.

I'm crying.

* * *

Sandy scowls as I attempt to pull him towards the field. "Hurry up, Sandy! We'll be late!

"Don't care."

"But there's a whole bunch of people here to watch you. Aunt CJ, Uncle Sam, Uncle Toby and Huck and Molly... I bet you have the most people out of everyone..."

"I don't want the most people! I just want Mommy and Daddy! He promised! Anyway, they're just coming 'cause Daddy's not, because of Norah."

I squat down and look into his face. "Norah needed him, Sandy. She's really not feeling well, buddy."

"They always say that! When's she gonna get better?"

"I don't know."

The resignation in my voice gets through to him like words cannot. His shoulders sag, and he turns and begins to trudge toward the dugout. "It's not fair," he mutters.

"What's not fair?"

"Everything...I don't know."

You and me both, kiddo. You and me both.

* * *

I can hear the murmuring voices of Josh and Abbey Bartlet coming from inside. From my place on the porch, I look out over the fields.

Josh wanted to talk to Abbey about Norah, so I got to come along. I'd never met the Bartlets before. They're nice.

Well, they are. I mean, what else can I say about the Bartlets that hasn't been said before? They're nice. Although the Secret Service guys do kinda bother me.

"May I interrupt?"

Yah! I jump, then turn to see Jed Bartlet grinning at me. "Sure, yeah. I mean yes, of course."

"Good."

He limps over to the couch, leaning heavily on his four-pronged cane.

"May I help you, sir?"

"No, son. You just sit down. That's what the suits are for," he says, gesturing towards the agents. "So. How are you doing?"

"Me, sir? Just fine."

"You don't have to call me sir, Adi."

"What should I call you?"

"Well, most of the kids call me Grandpa Jed. You do whatever you're comfortable with."

"Um, how about Mr. B, for now?"

"Mr. B. I like that. It has panache." He smiles, and I grin at him. "Are you settling in all right?"

"Yes, si...Mr. B."

"Josh told me about the fight." I look at him, and see the fire burning in his eyes. I resolve then and there never to cross Jed Bartlet. I want that anger on my side, never on the other.

"None of what those little bastards said is true, you know."

I look at him, surprised, and see him regarding me steadily. "Yeah."

"Just thought I'd get that out in the open, add my two cents to everyone else's. Now," he says gleefully, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, "time for the cross-examination to begin. Josh said you speak Italian?"

"Yeah, and French, and German rather well. Some Spanish, too."

"Excellent, excellent. Given some thought to what you want to do yet?"

"Well, isn't it a little early for that, sir?"

"Never too early. Goals are important. So, how about it?"

"Well, I don't know. I like traveling, being overseas. Maybe journalism, reporting. I like kids, too, so maybe I can work that in, somehow. I used to coach a soccer team in Italy. I want to do that over here, too, I just haven't...

"How are you getting along with Josh and Donna's kids?"

"Fine. It's a little...a little hard right now, with Norah and everything. Josh and Donna are both pretty exhausted. Sometimes...sometimes I can't help but think that my coming made things worse for them, added more stress... you know."

"You're a big help to them. They wouldn't manage half as well without you. I want to thank you for that," he says quietly.

"Me? Why?"

"Because they are important to me. Josh took a bullet for me, you know. I hate to see them in pain. Your being here, helping, helps them bear everything."

Wow. I can see why Josh and everyone loves him so much. When he looks at you like that, it's like you're the only person in the world, the most important person ever. Wow. "Thanks."

"Yeah."

We sit in silence for a while. "So how is Norah, really?"

"She's...sick. They're probably going to do the transplant. They're testing us all next week. I hope Sandy matches." He looks surprised. "He's been so sensitive lately, volatile," I explain. "I think, if he matched, if he felt like he was helping, he'd feel better. About himself."

"Getting some attention wouldn't hurt, hmmmm?"

"Yeah. He understands, but then he doesn't, too. I try to spend as much time with him as I can, but it's not me he wants. It's Josh, or Donna. But Donna's basically living at the hospital now, and Josh is running around like crazy trying to take care of everything else. I just wish...," I trail off.

"Yeah."

He puts his hand on my shoulder, and we sit there, quiet, for a long time.

* * *

"Believe it or not, Adi is the closest match."

I hear my name, and snap to attention. Huh? Me?

"But, I thought...Sandy and Liza...they should be the ones, shouldn't they?"

"No. Not in this case."

"Are you sure you can't use Sandy's?"

Dr. Feldman looks at me strangely. Josh stares at the floor. Donna whispers, "Adi."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll do it."

* * *

I watch Adi as he sleeps. Everything went well. Now we just have to wait. Wait. I hate that word. I always have. Donna would say I have no patience, usually, but I know she agrees with me on this one.

Adi stirs, grimacing, and I cover him with the sheet. I wonder what he looked like asleep when...when he was little. I loved watching my kids sleep when they were babies. The little noises they made, the fall and rise of their chests as they breathed. It's one of the memories I use to try to ward off the nightmares, the fears.

I watch Adi as he sleeps.

* * *

Ow. _Owwwwwwwww_. Shit. This hurts. This _really_ hurts. Pain. Painpainpainpainpain. Pain.

"Hey."

I open my eyes slowly, drowsy. "Hey, Josh."

"How ya doin'?"

"Shit."

He laughs softly. "Yeah."

"How is she?"

"We're still waiting."

"Tell me when you know."

"Yeah." He pauses, bites his lower lip. "Thank you."

Huh? "What?"

"Thank you, For doing this. I can't imagine why you would, after everything...after I never...after landing in the middle of all of this, I..."

I am way too tired to have this conversation right now. Too tired to reason with him. "Dad, shut up. I need to sleep."

He looks up, smiles. "Ahh-kay," he says after a minute. "So sleep."

* * *

The next time I wake up, he's smiling so widely that I wonder hazily whether he might actually, I don't know, break his face or something.

"It's working! It's _working!_"

Good.

I'm going back to sleep now.


	3. The Luck of the Draw 3

The Luck of the Draw (3/?) 

Notes and Disclaimers in Part One

Yay Feedback!!!!

Thanks to those who sent me feedback already; it makes me want to churn the next bits out faster so I can get even more delicious feedback!

* * *

Ten Years Later 

What the hell?

Somebody just knocked on the door. I squint at the clock. At...5:36 in the morning. I thought only I was crazy enough to get up this early on a Saturday. Even Josh won't get up for another hour, and he's the Chief of Staff. I peek out the window, and quickly open the door.

"Oh my God!"

"Buon giorno, bella Mamma Donnatella!"

It's Adi, with his own take on a dopey "Josh-grin" plastered across his face. I poke him, laughing. "Get in here, Casanova."

"If you insist." He picks up his worn duffel bag and hefts it inside.

"What are you doing here?"

"Our editor gave us a week off."

"Did you get fired? Were you stealing things?"

He laughs. "No. I'm not hallucinating, either. We went into the office, Stan took a look, and said, 'You guys look like shit. Take some time off. I don't want to see your sorry asses in here for a week.' So we left. You don't turn down time off, especially with Stan."

"I'm glad he has some sense. You _do _look tired." I take a closer look at him. We haven't seen him in months. He's wearing standard overseas reporter gear: jeans, a sweater, scuffed boots, and one of those flak-jacket-like things they all seem to have. I must say, though, he looks good. What? I'm a step-mom. I'm biased. So sue me. His hair's much shorter, though; he buzzed it. I can understand why; when you're trying to avoid landmines or gunfire, the last thing you want to worry about is bed head. Not that you'd be doing that anyway in that situation, but...you know what I mean. I'll just miss comparing him with Kramer in the mornings, is all.

He's too skinny, too. I glare at him. "Don't they make sure you eat over there, when you're risking life and limb in the name of the Pulitzer and journalistic excellence and whatever the hell else it is you do?"

He grins. "The scoop doesn't wait for breakfast, Donna."

"Well, it should. Breakfast is-"

"-The most important meal of the day," he groans. "I know."

"Well, remember. I have enough trouble getting your father to eat properly. I never thought I'd have to worry about you with that."

"Yes, ma'am." He salutes.

"Good," I say. "Breakfast. Come on through to the kitchen. Banana pancakes?"

He's got that hopeful look in his eyes, the one that makes him look about six, the same one Josh uses. I can't resist it from either of them. "With whipped cream and caramel sauce?" he asks pleadingly.

"Yes, you big lug. Come on."

* * *

I've been thinking about Donna's pancakes for weeks. See, she mashes bananas and puts them in the batter, and then she cuts up more and puts them on top, with the caramel and the whipped cream, and walnuts, and...

"What?" She asked me a question.

"I said, you said 'we.' Does that mean Phil's with you?"

"Yeah. He went into town to do...something, I don't know. He'll be here in a while. You mind?"

"Mind? Why should I mind? He's only been invading our home for six years, why should one more time make a difference?"

I laugh. It's true. I've known Phil since my freshman year at Princeton. He's from Australia, so, obviously, he didn't go home very often. He stayed with us instead. We were roommates for three years; we got each other through Wilson. By Wilson, I mean Princeton's Woodrow Wilson School for Public and International Affairs. Sam just about did the tango with Toby when we both got in; Dad was pretty proud, too, although he was still upset that I didn't consider transferring to Harvard. I did my grad stuff there, too, while Phil went and did a course in photojournalism. Afterwards, we teamed up, walked into all the big papers, and tried to get ourselves a job. Donna laughed when we told her the stuff we went through. I think it reminds her of how she started working for Dad.

Believe it or not, we got a job at the NY Times; and yes, we did it without mentioning we're on a first-name basis with the President of the United States. Stan did get this glazed-over look when I told him later, though. I made it clear that I don't have any inside info on what's going on with Sam and the White House, and surprisingly, Stan's left us alone. But I digress. Slightly.

Anyway, what happened was that one of the foreign correspondent teams had just gone to another paper, and we were willing to go anywhere, places where nobody else really wanted to go. So we got the job. Donna kind of freaked, but after awhile Dad brought her around. I think he reminded her that he is, in fact, the Chief of Staff of the United States at the moment, and he can pull any number of strings if things get really bad. Not that I'll let him, though, unless it's absolutely necessary. I think the reasoning that by the time Sam's second term runs out, we'll have progressed to somewhat safer assignments also entered the argument at some point.

"And how is dear Philip these days?"

"Dear Philip is fine, charming his way through the world's hellholes. As usual."

"What, he isn't saving himself for your sister?"

I choke on my coffee. "Are you sure you want to say stuff like that when Dad is, you know, hypothetically within hearing distance?"

"He's clueless, not blind, Adi. Eventually things penetrate."

"Yeah, and we all have to scramble for the fallout shelter when they do. What? Phil likes to argue. And snark. And, as you know, Norah is quite adept at doing both."

Donna sighs. "Yes. She is, unfortunately, her father's child."

* * *

Banana pancakes. _Donna's_ banana pancakes. I would know that smell anywhere. I wonder why she's making them today. As best I can recall, we didn't do anything particularly mind-blowing last night.

Who cares. You don't question the banana pancakes. I pull on a shirt and head downstairs. "Hey, Donna, what's with the-"

Then I notice Adi sitting at the table. I brighten. "Hey, it's the prodigal son! Should've known. Get over here, Cronkite."

"Dad, I'm not entirely sure Cronkite was, you know, an actual reporter."

"Hey, everyone has to start somewhere. Anyway, shut up and give me a hug." We embrace, manfully, of course, and I look him over quickly. "You look good, kid. Anything missing or blasted off I should know about?"

"_Josh._"

"What?" I meet Donna's dark gaze as Adi doubles over in mirth. "It's a simple, perfectly valid question."

"Do not even _suggest _such a thing, Joshua."

I hold my hands up in defeat. "Actually," Adi says, "I'm fine."

"Good," I say, as I sneak around Donna in an attempt to steal some pancakes. After 20 years, though, she knows all my maneuvers. Hell, she knew them in 20 minutes, practically.

"No, Josh. Cereal. Yogurt. Fruit."

"Donna! It's Saturday."

"Yes, it is. And as you are so fond of telling me, the world is open on Saturday. All the little wheels of the universe are still turning. "Including," she says pointedly, "the ones that cause your blood pressure to rise and plaque to build up along your arteries. So shut up and sit down."

Adi's sitting there laughing his head off. "Things are in a sad state of affairs if the second most powerful man in the United States can receive neither respect nor the right to exercise free will in his own home," I grumble.

"Josh, you do realize that if I let you exercise free will as regards your eating habits, the stress would have killed you by now, and then Sam would misplace the state of Florida. If I let you indulge every day, you would also likely no longer have a fan club and, most importantly, you would have a significantly higher level of sexual frustration."

"And why is that?"

"Because, sugarplum," she says smugly, "if such a situation were actually the case, I would consider it my wifely duty to safeguard you from unnecessary exertion."

What can a guy say to that? I eat cereal.

"If you even think about selling this to the National Enquirer, Cronkite, you're dead."

* * *

I swear to God, I have no idea how these two spent 25 years in each other's company without killing each other. For an innocent bystander such as myself, though, it's quite entertaining.

"And anyway," Donna continues. "These are not for you. They're for Adi and Phil."

"Stieglitz is here? Excellent. I can argue."

Donna rolls her eyes. "They're supposed to be _resting_, Joshua. They were dodging landmines a few days ago."

"How do you dodge a landmine? I thought the whole point of landmines was stealth."

Donna holds the pan above his head. "Okay, okay," he says quickly. He makes a show of digging into his cereal. "Plus, I can argue without Norah jumping into the middle. And without worrying about her jumping into anything else," he mutters.

Donna and I exchange grins. "Actually, Josh," she says, "you might just have to."

"Why?"

"I called her," I say, trying to keep a straight face. She's coming home for the weekend."

"_Fabulous._ And it started out such a fine day."


	4. The Luck of the Draw 4

The Luck of the Draw (Part 4?)

Disclaimer: See Part One

Warning: This piece deals with drug addiction. It's not very explicit, but if it bothers you, don't read!

Feedback: Please, please, please, please, please! I just got back to school and am already fiendishly busy; I'm proud I got this done, finally, and feedback would make my day! Have pity! I'm going to be stuck reading chemistry! 

* * *

Phil's just finished regaling Donna with stories of our "death-defying exploits." I did manage to interject that all of Phil's stories should be taken with a grain of salt, but he only shot me a dirty look and went on. It's a defense mechanism, really; if either of us tried to accurately recount the things we've seen, we would profoundly depress people. Some, like Donna, would probably chain us to our beds to keep us from going back. I won't say I'm not afraid; sometimes I'm downright petrified. But the stories we pursue are the ones that really need to be told. I don't know, I just want to help people. And if that means putting my life on the line for a few days so people who've lived in fear for years can finally sleep at night, then so be it.

I would go on, but there seems to be a squealing noise coming from the direction of the stairs. I make my way to the door of the kitchen, only to be barreled into by a very excited Eliza. "Adi!"

"Hey there, Tink."

Liza went through this stage when she was about six where she wanted to be Tinkerbell. I think every member of the family can still recite the "Peter Pan" script from memory, that's how many times we watched it. Sandy and I got in the habit of calling her Tink, and now most of her friends do too, at least occasionally. Dad only uses it when he's snarking at her, which, with Dad, is fairly regularly.

She's moved on to Phil, and is now trying to talk him out of some of his pancakes. She's about to start chasing him, when Donna sets a plate before her with a thump. Grinning guiltily, Liza slides into a chair.

"So, that's one accounted for," says Phil. "Where are Picasso and the pixie-kid hiding?"

You've probably noticed that there are a lot of nicknames floating around in this house. Donna blames it on CJ, but as for me, well, it makes me feel like we're a closer family, somehow. I've never actually voiced that opinion; they'd think I was a sentimental fool and I'd never hear the end of it, especially from Sandy and Norah. And it would make Donna cry.

The front door slams, to my surprise, and when I look up, I see Sandy. I thought he must have been sleeping in, catching up after a late party, but he looks as if he hasn't been home at all. From the glances Donna and Liza exchange, I sense that this isn't a one-time occurrence. After a quick hug, Liza slips past me and up the stairs. Sandy doesn't try to explain, or argue, he just stands there, passive. That bothers me more than anything. When a Lyman doesn't even try to put up a fight, something's really wrong.

As Donna approaches Sandy, Phil excuses himself; he too can see that something is going on. I lean against the banister and watch.

* * *

Here it comes, the inevitable parental showdown. It looks like a calm, reasoning one this time; Mom alternates between that and going totally ballistic. And Dad? Hah! What a joke. He's never here anyway.

Adi's here, though, which will obviously make everyone jump for joy. The return of the perfect prodigal son. Well, at least now they'll be distracted enough not to notice when I go out again. Isn't that what dear old Dad always says, to look for the positive in any situation?

Positivity my ass.

* * *

"Did you just get in, Sandy?"

"You saw me come through the door, Mom."

"I meant, are you just now coming back from wherever you went last night?"

"Yeah."

"You are aware that that was definitely past your curfew, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Man, the kid isn't even breaking a sweat. I could never get through one of Donna's grillings that coolly. Sandy just looks bored, though, remote and detached, like he doesn't even care. Liza's told me about Sandy getting in trouble in her emails, but I assumed it was normal stuff, stupid stuff like I did.

Now I'm not so sure.

Donna continues. "Well, where were you then?"

"Out."

"Out." Donna sighs. "Fine. Go upstairs and get some rest. We'll talk again in a little while. Are you hung-"

Sandy's already gone up the stairs to his room. A few seconds later the door slams. Donna sits down on the couch and rubs her head. I pull up a chair and ask the question: "Donna, what's going on?"

She smiles ruefully. "You think I know? Actually, I haven't got a clue."

"Liza mentioned he's been getting in some trouble…"

"Yes. Typical things, I guess you might say. Staying out past curfew, and Josh caught him with a cigarette once. He had Sam deliver an hour-long presidential lecture on the health hazards of smoking; Sam can pontificate almost as well as President Bartlet. That cured him of the smoking, but then his grades started slipping, and lately, well, it's just gotten ten times worse. He stays out all night, we can barely talk to him, he's isolating… Josh says it's just growing up, rebellion, sowing wild oats and all that, but…I don't know what to do. I never see him drawing anymore, Adi. Never. I just don't know…"

"You want me to try and talk to him?"

"Thank you, honey. Yes, if you don't mind. Maybe coming from you…" Donna trails off as we hear yet another key turning in the lock.

* * *

Staying with Adi's family is great. There's always this sense of energy and good-natured friction. I've always loved to debate, so the Moss-Lyman household is a dream come true. Josh is great fun to argue with; watching the verbal sparring dynamic he and Donna have is even better. I swear, those two should teach a seminar in banter, or something. Adi only jumps in when necessary; he's the voice of reason when things get heated, or at least he is until Josh and I start insulting his manhood. Then things get really fun. Sandy usually interjects some tongue-in-cheek comment before escaping to safety, and Liza hurls insults like the best of us.

Norah, though, she's something else. She's so passionate about what she believes in, fiery. It's spectacular. She and Josh can go head to head no problem. As for me, when I'm not arguing with her, I mock her "righteous anger." It's just so easy, especially when she's all fired up. She'll assume this sort of combat stance, her hands will start going everywhere, her hair will be standing on end, and her eyes fairly snap out at you. Frankly, I find it adorable, and usually say as much, which is when she starts to hit me.

Okay, okay, I admit it, I have a thing for Adi's sister. I always have had, ever since that first Thanksgiving. She never backs down from anything, and gives as good as she gets, if not better. But, she's his little sister. She is also, and this is far more frightening, Josh Lyman's daughter. Hey, I argue with the man on friendly terms, and that's hard enough. You think I'll survive going up against him when the subject is his daughter?

You're right.

Neither do I.

* * *

I hear voices coming from the stairwell, which must mean that Norah is home. I head down the stairs, the requisite snide comment on the tip of my tongue, when she looks up. I stop, mid-flight. Holy god. I, ah, don't think I'm in Kansas here anymore, folks. She looks absolutely…_lovely._

I used to call her Pixie, because of her short hair that stood up all over. It's longer now, the reddish curls tumbling past her chin; her face looks softer. Discreet makeup brings out her eyes. She's definitely not a gangly tomboy anymore. She looks sophisticated, urbane. Fabulous.

Oh, yeah. We're most definitely not in Kansas, here.

* * *

Hah! I have accomplished the impossible. The smooth and suave Philip Brookner, is, for once, speechless, and staring at me with an utterly stunned (and therefore ridiculous) expression. I would rather render him speechless with my superior intellect and wit, of course, but this is fine for starters.

I've been trying to get that self-satisfied expression off his face for years, ever since the first time Adi brought him home for Thanksgiving. Of course, I fell for him right away. What fourteen year-old wouldn't? He's not Tom Cruise or anything, but he's got a grin that's sexy as hell, dark brown hair and light green eyes. Add in a fabulous accent, and he was pretty much guaranteed to jump-start my hormones, if they'd needed any jump-starting in the first place.

* * *

Even in my room upstairs, I can feel the tension brewing; it's like the air on a humid day, thick, palpable, oppressive. So I do what I always do: block it out, try and ignore it. I don't brood like Dad and Sandy, I cover things up.

Sandy. My big brother has always been someone I've idolized, ever since I was little. I love Adi, but Sandy's _always _been my big brother, if you know what I mean. So funny, and smart, and he could draw the most wonderful pictures. He made storybooks for me, the first one when he was maybe six or seven, exuberant and childish, and the last one a year ago, for my Bat Mitzvah, beautiful and detailed. The pictures are bright and fanciful, and I love to look at them.

But I don't idolize him anymore, and that hurts. Lately, he doesn't seem to care about anything or anyone, least of all himself. I've thought about trying to talk to him, but I _am_ his little sister, and when he's in one of his moods, nobody, not even Mom, can get anywhere with him.

So I do the next best thing: get out of the way, because one day, whatever volcano Sandy's been hiding is going to erupt, and the last thing I want is to get caught in the backlash.

I have a feeling, though, that no matter what I do, I might get caught anyway.

* * *

I feel like shit. Luckily, there's an easy way to fix that. Vicodin.

What? You mean you didn't guess? Hey, between Dad and Mom, this place is Vicodin central. It's not like _they're_ junkies or anything, they just need it once in a while, for their injuries. Nah, it's me that gets the recreational pleasure out of it.

It's just so nice not to have to feel. Not to actually have to do anything about being perpetually equivalent to aforementioned shit.

You may be wondering, how can the offspring of two such confident individuals as Joshua Lyman and Donnatella Moss-Lyman have such a low opinion of himself? Very easily, my friends. It's just, everybody's so goddamn perfect around here. I mean, my father is the second most powerful man in the world, my mother is a respected journalist renowned for her wit, my older sister is considered the heir apparent to the Lyman political dynasty, and my older brother is fucking Gandhi! So, of course, I have to be the wastrel. Every family has one; it might as well be me, right? Right. But I don't know, sometimes I don't think I'm really that cool with it. That's where the Vicodin comes in. Changing would be too hard, and besides, it would make everyone too happy.

Shit! The bottle I keep in my room is empty. I keep a stash in the back of the bathroom closet. You might be wondering how I take the pills without my parents noticing they're missing? First of all, they're too fucking busy to notice much of anything; I mean, why care that your son is hooked on pills when there's the weekly national/international apocalypse to avert? Second, do you know how easy it is to refill a standing prescription? I know you wouldn't believe it, but the helpful son story really does work.

Anyway, here they are. Oblivion, here I come. I knock back a few just as the door opens. I whirl around, pills scattering everywhere, to come face to face with a horrified Liza.

"Sandy!" She's staring at me like I just killed her cat or something, her big blue eyes brimming with reproach and tears. I so do not need this right now.

"Get out of here, Liza." She doesn't move. She's starting to piss me off; the last thing I need is for her to ruin everything. "Liza, get out of here, are you deaf? GET OUT!" She's still just standing there, tears dripping down her cheeks. I take her arm and try to drag her out, but her feet don't move. My rage at the futility of it all, everything, boils over, and I slam her into the doorframe, then turn away shaking, barely registering her sharp yelp of pain. Oh God.

"Tink? I'm sorry, Tink, I'm really sorry. Here, let me see. Tink…" She's shrinking away from me, pressing herself into a corner. I hear the pounding of feet on the stairs, and turn to grip the sink, defeated.

"Guys?" It's Norah. "Mom went out to the store, she'll be back soon…What happened? What is it, Liza? Oh my God, look at your…Sandy!"

I don't make out the words of her rage, they just slap at me as relentlessly as hail, augmented by Liza's rain of tears and whimpers. I hear Adi and Phil come up behind her, hear them hustling Liza out with soothing tones, and then it's quiet. I turn around slowly, only to find Adi watching me, looking lost.

If Adi's lost, what does that mean for me?


	5. The Luck of the Draw 5

* * *

The Luck of the Draw (Part 5/?)

Rating: PG-13/R

Disclaimer: See Part One

Warning: This piece deals with drug addiction. It's not very explicit, but if it bothers you, don't read!

Feedback: Please, please, please, please, please!!! I just got back to school and am already fiendishly busy; I'm proud I got this done, finally, and feedback would make my day! Have pity! I'm going to be stuck reading chemistry!

* * *

Jesus Christ. I don't know what to do. What do I do? What can any of us do?

I have never seen a person, a soul, have such a sense of bleakness, of desolation. He's pale, his entire body seems to be shivering, and his hands are shaking badly.

Pills. Why didn't I guess, why didn't anybody? I know it's crazy around here, that Sandy's always been a private, secretive sort of guy, but Dad and Donna make a point to keep up with all of us, spend time with us. I can't believe they haven't spotted this. I'd have thought that Dad, with his history, might have recognized... And Donna! She's the one that figured out what was wrong with Dad after the shooting, why didn't she...

Shit. He's crying; I doubt he realizes it. He looks like he's shattering, slowly imploding, and suddenly he's on the floor, hands wrapped around his knees, rocking.

Poor kid. I know I should be pissed, but I'm too sad, too sorry. He's going to have enough people pissed at him, anyway, so I do what a big brother should do: I sit with him and rub his back till he quiets, and then I go and call Dad.

* * *

Adi decided to stay behind in case Josh, Donna, or Sandy needed anything. CJ came and took Liza to Sam's (what a euphemism for the White House, huh?), where a doctor will look at her arm and she can spend the night with Jen, Sam's stepdaughter, who happens to be her best friend. It was pretty clear none of them needed us around, so Nora and I took off. We're heading for Virginia Beach. I know it sounds crazy, for November, but I wanted to be by the ocean. It helps me to think; I would always go to the beach when I had a problem back home.

I know Norah likes the ocean, too. Actually, that's all I've said since we left, that we were going to the ocean. She just nodded, then looked out the window. Since then it's been silent. For once I'm leaving her in peace.

When we finally get there, I let her out and go park the car. She's already down by the water when I get back. I join her, and the soothing, lapping lull of the waves begins to relax me and remind me of home.

Suddenly, she speaks. I snap out of my reverie. "Sorry?"

"Why do these things always happen to us? First Dad gets shot, then Mom's in an explosion, then I come along and almost die on them, and now it's Sandy's turn to go through hell. What did he do to deserve this? Underneath all the anger and shit he's just a sweet kid who really, really screwed up, and now...I wonder what's in store for Liza? We've got most of the bases covered, it seems, let's see... teen pregnancy? Date rape? Car wreck? Paralysis?"

I've never seen her like this, ever. She's always been ready with a joke, a smart comment, sarcasm, but now she's teetering on the edge of losing it. I grab her wildly gesticulating arms in an effort to calm her.

"Norah, stop! NORAH!!! You'll make yourself sick, love, calm down. Please, calm down." I wrap my arms around her and feel her shaking, so I guide her to a nearby rock and sit her down. She curls up into a ball, her hands around her knees, and I feel a pang in my chest. All I want to do is hold her, but just as I've made up my mind to approach her, she begins to speak in short, snuffling breaths.

"Please, Phil, could you leave me alone for awhile? Please?"

I stop short. "Sure. Of course. I'll just go get us a coffee. Be back in a bit." I start off in the direction of the shops. When I turn around, her back is towards me.

* * *

Well, things are just peachy keen down here at the Lyman homestead. Donna's been doing a lot of yelling, Dad's been doing a lot of staring at the floor, Sandy's been doing a lot of slouching, and I, well, I've been doing a lot of standing just at the edge of the firing line.

"Sandy, what in God's name... I cannot believe this. Pills? Are you completely dense...my God, I..."

I've never seen Donna like this. She's the reasonable one, the one who calms and teases us all out of our tempers. But now...

"Well, I'll tell you something, mister. Your freedom is a thing of the past. From now on you'll do what we tell you to do and go where we tell you to go. This is unbelievable...I never thought you could be so foolish."

Suddenly, Sandy snaps. He goes from lethargy to fury so quickly it's frightening. "What the hell do you care?" he screams. "You don't need me around here! You've got Norah and Adi and Liza! Aren't they enough? I'm worthless anyway, I'll never do anything to make you happy, so why fucking bother? There's no point." Silence. "God, you're all so fucking superior, it makes me sick."

Donna is deathly pale, trembling visibly. "Don't you dare ever say anything like that to us again, Samuel. Ever. We almost lost your sister, there is no way we're losing you. Got that? And if you don't like it you can just...". She breaks down. "Josh," she whispers brokenly.

He gets up and goes to Donna. Sandy's still standing there, unreadable. "Go on up to your room, Sandy. Just go."

Sandy turns abruptly and runs up the stairs.

* * *

Donna's asleep, worn out. I start Adi on making the right phone calls and go up to check on Sandy.

He's asleep, too, with Dusty stretched across his legs. One arm is flung up over his head, and there are tear tracks drying on his cheeks. I sit carefully on the bed and look at him.

Sandy. A thousand images and sensations from the last sixteen years crowd into my mind. The feel of his tiny hand in mine, the look of wonder in his eyes as a ladybug tickled across his palm, his delighted glee as I would whirl him around and dump him in a big pile of leaves.

Later, his afternoons of intense, intent scrawling, so lost in his own world that he wouldn't notice as I snuck up behind him and watched, the sunlight bright on his hair. His Bar Mitzvah, expertly chanting the Hebrew, and then his voice cracking and all of us freezing in horror, only to look up and see that wonderful crazy, goofy grin plastered across his face. Taking him out driving and almost dying, yelling at him in exasperated frustration while he sat there howling with laughter, only to eventually grin and start chuckling myself.

That was only last year. What happened? Where did he go? What did I do?

I smooth a hand gently over his hair, noticing that it's still as soft and golden as it was when he was a baby, when I used to run a hand over his hair and watch him sleep.

What did he ever do to deserve this?

* * *

I found hot apple cider. Donna would make that every Christmas, and it was Norah's favorite tradition. She used to love mixing in the spices and letting it simmer, while the aroma filled the entire house. If it won't cheer her up, maybe it'll at least make her think about happy times, and that things will be that way again, eventually. Maybe.

When I reach her, though, everything flies out of my head. Blood is pouring out from a sizeable gash in her foot. "What in God's name happened?" I ask as I strip my upper body; I'll need the shirt for a bandage.

"I was running around, jumping, kicking, trying to work off some frustration. All of a sudden my foot came down on this huge piece of glass that was hidden in the sand."

"What possessed you to take off your shoes, you idiot? You know you have to be careful of infection! And what the hell were you jumping about for? Were you trying to turn yourself into a bloody kangaroo?"

"Listen, you jackass! I did not injure myself on purpose! I'm in pain, my family is in the midst of yet another crisis, and now, worst of all, in my hour of need, I am dependent upon an oaf of a disagreeable Mick Dundee, who, for all intents and purposes, seems to have a didgeridoo thrust up his rectum!"

"Feel better, there, my lovely?" I inquire sarcastically.

She clears her throat. "Yes, actually, thank you."

"Good. Just keep hanging on to that thought until we get to the hospital."

* * *

Jackass! I told him over and over again that I didn't need or want to go to the hospital, but here I am. He didn't let me walk in, or even hop! Nope, he just had to carry me, like a damn sack of potatoes.

I hate hospitals. I really hate them. People often tell me I should be grateful for them, since one saved my life, or barring that, that I should at least feel comfortable in them.

But I don't. I hate them. They make me nervous. And now I'm in one, alone with this idiot. And I'm going to have to talk about my cancer, and he'll hear every word and I don't want that. I don't want that!

I really want my mom and dad.

I'm not going to cry.

I am NOT going to cry.

Okay.

I can do this.

I think.

* * *

Seeing her clutch that pillow when the doctor came in to talk to her made me want to punch myself in the nose. How could I have been so insensitive? Adi's told me how much she hates these places.

She's still got a death grip on that pillow, and she's hunched up again. It seems like this place has the power to turn her from the articulate, confident woman who walked in the door yesterday into the frightened little girl she once must have been. It must feel horrible to have a place hold such emotional power over you. I wish I could make it go away.

A tear slips down her cheek, and I smooth it away with my thumb. "You all right, 'Roo?"

"So stupid," she chokes out. "I shouldn't be doing this. It was years ago, for God's sake."

I lean forward and embrace her gently, rubbing circles on her back. "You have every right," I murmur, "every right to cry. Don't be afraid of it. Cry. Cry, 'Roo. Just cry, sweetheart. It's fine."

After she's gotten it all out, she looks up at me and smiles. "What's with this 'Roo' business?"

I smooth back her tousled hair. "Well, you do want to be a kangaroo, don't you? At least, that's the impression I got from before."

"You just watch it there, Dundee." But she's smiling.

* * *

So, apparently, I'm a psychotic mess. I've been dragged to an unending stream of doctors, shrinks, social workers, you name it, over the past week, and they all say the same things: depression, anger management issues, low self-esteem, not to mention the big A, addiction, which we all knew anyway.

So the upshot is that I'm being banished. To Colorado. Colo-_ra-_do. To some like, treatment ranch, or something. I love how everyone keeps pointing out the "fun" things I'm going to do: horseback riding, rock climbing, camping. Hell, I even heard stargazing once. I think that might've been from Toby, even. Weird. When Toby says stuff like that, you know it's serious. Yeah, so I guess weird is the right adjective to use to describe life lately. I mean, I thought Dad would blow his stack, you know? But he's been quiet. _Quiet. _This is Josh Lyman we're talking about, here. But it's true. He really hasn't said much of anything of real importance, he just keeps looking at me with this unreadable expression.

Mom's the pissed one. I mean, I thought she'd be mad, and upset, and weepy, and she is all those things, but she's been _irate_, yelling at me, like, non-stop. She cried when we left, though, and hugged me, so I guess things will be okay eventually. Liza did, too, and I hugged her back; I know she doesn't trust me anymore, but maybe someday.

Anyway, I've still got a while before I'm imprisoned by the Rockies, so I might as well do something.

* * *

I glance at Sandy. He's tapping his foot and drumming his fingers incessantly on the armrest, but other than that he _seems _okay, at least.

I wish I could say the same. I did not want to do this, send him away, but it is the sensible thing, the best thing, the safest thing.

I hate those reasons.

I know that we couldn't keep him safe at home, that Donna and I are frankly both too busy and too high-profile to give him the surveillance and tight limits he needs right now. I know that Sandy has become the second Lyman to be barred from the President and his family because of "instability," and that situation would be pretty logistically impossible to manage during his months of treatment.

I hate those reasons too, though.

But this place is supposed to be good, they say, they do detox and provide all manner of counseling, help build self-confidence and keep the family closely involved.

I still hate it.

I hate that I didn't see this and stop it, I hate that I can't be with him every second of this in case he needs me, because if anyone close to him understands a bit of what he's going through, it's me.

There is something I can give him, though.

A story.

But the idea frightens me.

* * *

"Listen, Sandy. There's something you should know. After the shooting, after I had healed, physically, I started getting angry, short-tempered. More so than usual, enough so people noticed and worried. I couldn't stop thinking about the shooting, reliving it inside my mind, and it made me so sick inside I wanted to die. Instead, I put my hand through a window. I told everyone I hurt it putting a glass down. Luckily, they didn't believe me. Especially your mother, especially Leo, especially the trauma therapist Leo made me see. Stanley, the therapist, diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD. I can get flashbacks, get panicky, start to shut down, really. I, um, just thought you should know. Everyone hurts, is fallible. Nobody's immune, safe from it. From our 'demons.' You're the only one who I've told, out of the kids. Adi probably has an idea, from stuff he heard when he first came to live with us, but you're the only one I've told. I just thought that maybe you should know."

* * *

Oh, God, I forgot. "Sandy, wait!" He turns, and I look at his escort. "Can you give us a minute, please?" He nods. "I, I forgot to tell you. There's something they told me, after, Stanley, and Leo too, in his way. We get better, okay? We get better.

He nods, biting his lower lip, and gives me the merest possible hint of a smile.

Then he walks away, down the hall.


	6. The Luck of the Draw 6

See Part 1 for disclaimer

Author's Notes: Okay, I'm really sorry this took so long, but school has been nuts and now I'm sick. This is why I'm sending this out unbeta'd (?): I'm impatient for some feedback TLC! I am not intimately knowledgeable about psychology, aside from a bit of personal experience, so for those of you that are, please forgive me if this seems unrealistic. Thanks to all of you who sent replies to my shout-out for help a few weeks ago; this isn't the angsty bit I was talking about there- serious angst takes serious energy, which I must, unfortunately, devote to school. So that is still on the back burner, possibly to follow the happy bits I shall be sending out as soon as I can get them written down. 'Bout time for some happy bits, don't you think?

* * *

One Month Later

I squeeze Donna's hand. We're in Colorado, for our first on-site family session. Unable to sit still, I get up and pace around the waiting room.

Suddenly, behind me, the door squeaks open. I whirl around, expecting to see Sandy, but instead find myself facing Dr. Dan Larson, the director of MacGill. That's the name of this place, The MacGill Retreat. Catchy, huh?

"Mr. Lyman?"

I shake his outstretched hand, and watch as he greets Donna.

"How is he?" I ask abruptly.

"Progressing."

"Progressing? It's been a month and all you can say is 'progressing'? What the hell are we paying you for?"

"_Josh."_

I catch Donna's glance. "Yeah. Sorry, Doctor. Forgive me."

"It's all right, Mr. Lyman. As much as I hate to say it, your reaction is quite ordinary. Rather tame, in fact." He smiles. I like this guy. He's a mensch. Like Stanley. Doesn't hand out _too_ much abstract shit.

"Dr. Larson," Donna says softly, "please, how's our boy?"

"As I said, and I'm sorry for being so vague, he's progressing. He made it through detox, as you know, and he's beginning to participate in programs of his own volition. He's keeping up with his academic work as well, and is generally cooperative. That said, though, he's holding back. He's still very much on the defensive; he rarely gives me straight answers. This isn't at all unusual, but Sandy's particularly guarded. He's also had trouble sleeping- nightmares. We've had to give him something. When he comes in, don't be surprised if he looks tired. Between the medication, therapy and programs, life here can be somewhat draining, especially at first."

"So, Doctor, what kind of a timetable are we looking at here?"

"Josh." Donna breaks in. "You know how long. A school year, or its equivalent."

"I know. I just...I want him home. I feel like I'm abandoning him here."

"Considering your situation, Mr. Lyman, it's really what's best. I'm sure it was difficult enough to get out here even for today."

I stare at my shoes, not wanting to admit that what he's saying is true. "And anyway, Mr. Lyman, the longer he stays in treatment now, the less likelihood he has of "relapsing." I can't tell you how many patients we have that were released from other programs after a mere three months, or even less, and then simply continued their old "habit." It's in his best interest. Yours, too."

"I just want him back. I want my son back."

"Mr. Lyman, he'll never be exactly the same as before. Surely you understand that."

"I may understand it," I mutter under my breath, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it. So, do we get to see him, or do we just get to hear your dire prophecies for the duration of our, ah, _visit_?"

"_Joshua."_

I don't apologize this time, I just set my lips in a stubborn line and turn away, thrusting my hands in my pockets.

"I'll just go get him. Sit tight a minute."

As the door closes, Donna speaks. "You're really not helping here, Joshua."

"Donna! I..."

"Just shut up and listen a minute, okay? If you can't find it in yourself to be civil when it's just the doctor, how are you going to refrain from losing it when we have Sandy in here, too? You flying off the handle won't solve anything, except maybe make Sandy retreat even farther into whatever shell he's spent the last year or so creating."

"Donna, I have no intention..."

"Please, Josh. Please. _Please. _Just listen to me for once without arguing."

Dammit. She's got that pleading, beseeching look in her eyes, the one that leaves me helpless. I go over and take her hand, pensively biting my lower lip. "Okay," I murmur softly.

The door swings open, and we're face to face with Sandy.

* * *

My poor baby.

I can feel my heart breaking, piece by excruciating piece. He's standing in a corner, head down, his arms crossed over his chest. When he finally glances up, his expression is both defiant and wounded. Inscrutable, really. I reach out to brush his hair back, and he flinches. I draw back, suppressing a gasp, and will the tears not to fall. My baby is afraid of me, his own mother.

He looks so tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his slouched posture doesn't seem to be so much from indifference as rather a deep weariness.

Sandy's always been special. Don't get me wrong; I absolutely adore all of my children, but well, he's my only boy. More importantly, he's the one that reminds me most strongly of Josh. Yeah, I know, you thought Norah got the prize for that. And many would consider you correct: she's fiery, brilliant, passionate, and just a bit egotistical (I managed to temper that Lyman characteristic somewhat, thank goodness). No, Sandy reminds me of Josh at his sweetest, his most vulnerable, the "gooey center" part of him that Josh usually keeps hidden beneath his belligerent, smirking façade. Sandy, at least until recently, never had that sort of armor, a blessing for which I have never stopped being grateful. It makes it all the harder to see him now, though.

I'll never forget the day he was born. I know, I know, you wouldn't expect me to, but humor me, okay? Anyway, not surprisingly, Norah came out fighting and indignant when she was born, so we expected her little brother to do the same. But he practically slid out; he barely even cried. No, he just looked at us with those big brown eyes of his, Josh's eyes, quiet and content, and he had us, hook, line and sinker. Josh thought he was a marvel; I think he was amazed that any child of his could be so peaceful. He grew up into a gentle, thoughtful little boy, one who would spend hours watching a ladybug's plodding progress from a blade of grass to his finger, never hurrying, never being rough. Then he would bring it to me, his eyes shining with wonder, like Josh at his most endearing. Yup, Sandy was on the receiving end of many an unexpected hug till recently; being the sweet boy that he is, he accepted them with a bashful indulgence, even as a teenager.

And now he won't even let me touch him.

* * *

The kid looks like crap. I want to hug him more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life, but I recognize the defensive body language, so I let him be. Especially after the response Donna got. I know it's less to do with us than with the whole, well, _thing,_ but still, I don't need rejection on my mind, too. I start to chatter inanely about the rest of the kids, about how Dusty misses him, about Sam's latest attack of clumsiness, which, if you can believe it, actually involved a banana peel. Through the whole thing he just stands there, impassive. Donna's eyes are shining with tears, and the doctor is in the back of the room, being as unobtrusive as possible.

The panic is rising in me, and though I fight to shove it down, it's too strong, and all of my questions come pouring out: "Sandy, what did we do? How can we...Why didn't you just _say..._Please, help me understand. What did we do?"

He's staring at me, lips curled in a smirk, but his shaking voice betrays his emotion. "Do? What do you mean, 'What did you do'?" You didn't _do_ anything, that's what you did. Jeez, Dad...I..." He stares hard at the floor, fists clenched, getting himself under control. He glances quickly at the doctor. "Please, can I go? I just, I can't..._please_."

At the doctor's nod, he bolts from the room as if his very life depended on it. I slam my fist into the wall. "Dammit!" Breathing heavily, I look towards the doctor.

"Now we just might get somewhere," he says quietly.

* * *

I find refuge in the horse barn. It's a good place to think, a horse barn, and the horses just let you be.

I stay in there for what seems like forever, stroking Buster's velvety nose (I've been riding him a bit recently), when Brent comes in.

Brent's the guy that picked me up from the airport. He used to be a "recreational user" too, until he kicked the habit. Now he's a counselor and tech here, in the whole "I know what you're going through" vein. Patronizing shit like that makes me want to puke, but he's a good guy. Knows when to leave well enough alone. Except now.

"Your parents left, you know. They had to go back to DC."

Figures. "Yeah, well, duty calls."

"They waited for a few hours."

"Why didn't they come find me, then?" I ask hotly.

"Because Dr. Larson told them not to." He chuckles. "They practically had to tie your father down. He kept waving his credentials around. I think he would have called the President for an executive order, if your mother hadn't been there to stop him."

"Sam wouldn't have given him one, anyway."

"Well, you would know, I guess. So, you been having a good conversation, there?"

"At least they don't talk at you," I mutter.

"Why do I think that the use of that preposition was intentional?"

"It wasn't. I'm just stupid, didn't you know?"

"That's a load of crap, man. They tell me you test practically off the charts, when you're not numbing your brain with drugs. And I just met your parents. Nobody can be around them for so long and turn out anything but smart as hell. You'd have to. Self-defense." He grins.

"I guess."

"You're darn right I guess. Man, it must be hard being around them sometimes."

"What do you know about it?" I'm actually genuinely curious, but I don't want to give Brent that satisfaction.

"Oh, just a feeling I get, is all. They're just both so successful, and powerful. It must be hard to measure up."

Even though this sounds suspiciously like psychobabble, I can't help but answer: "They never expect us to be like them, they just want us all to be happy, they always..."

"Oh, come on," he interrupts. "You're telling me that they don't expect you to do something phenomenal and noteworthy with your life?"

"No, they just..."

"I don't believe that for a second, hotshot. You just think about it, then. Better think fast, though. The doc wants to see you after dinner."

Well hallelujah.

* * *

"So, you seemed a bit upset this afternoon, Sandy."

Oh yeah? I'd never of guessed. "Nah. I cry when I'm happy, ya know. I'm very in touch with my feelings. I'm just a feelings kind of guy."

"Huh. Funny then, that you needed pills to drown them out. Or was that not what you were doing?"

"Nope."

He smiles slightly. "Care to elaborate for me?"

"Honestly? No."

"Okay, well, let's try a different tack then, shall we?"

"Whatever you want, Doc. I'm here to oblige."

"How magnanimous of you," he comments dryly.

"That's me."

"Your parents were rather upset at what happened today. How do you feel about it?"

"It's fine. Don't you always say that I'm not responsible for other people's reactions to my actions?"

"That's true. But I didn't ask about that. I asked how you felt about it."

"Look, what does it matter? It doesn't matter, okay? They don't need my petty shit anyways. They've got other things to worry about."

"What petty shit would you be talking about?"

"THIS!!!"

"You would describe a drug addiction as petty? I'd wager they sure don't."

"In the scheme of things that they deal with on a daily basis, yes, this is petty. Besides, I didn't mean just that, I meant..."

"Yes?"

"Before."

"Before what? Before your addiction? Before your brother moved in with you? Before your sister got sick?"

"I don't know what ..."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"_Yes_, you do."

"No... Look, I..."

"Stop. Just stop. I need you to stop holding out on me. You've been doing it for a month, consistently, every session. That's long enough. It needs to end, you understand?"

"But..."

"Nothing's going to happen, Sandy. Nothing you say will hurt me, I promise you. But as long as you don't tell me, as long as you hide, it will hurt someone. You. And you've hurt for so long, too long. You don't have to fight it anymore."

"What..."

"You don't need to fight anymore. You don't have to be strong. Not for your father, your mother, your sisters, or your brother. Or even the President. Just give yourself a break, and rest."

Fine. "Before, during, practically everything, okay? Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Sure. Listen, don't sweat it. Everyone's fallible, kid, and denying it never helped anyone."

Though it feels as though my very soul is clogged with tears, I manage a small, shaky grin. "That's what my dad says."

"Well, he's a smart man. Good thing too, or I'd probably pack my bags and move to Sri Lanka."

"Well, I could tell you some things that would make you want to leave tonight. There was this one time..."

The doc smiles slightly, and then, slowly, so do I.


	7. The Luck of the Draw 7

See Part 1 for Disclaimer

Rating:PG

Author's Notes: Okay, guys, here it is: self-indulgent romantic drivel, as promised. I couldn't help it. I had to. I think Sandy is my favorite of my originals; I had to make him happy. And yes, I know the names Darrah and Norah are extremely similar, but that's what they wanted to be called, you know? Also, a note on Josh calling the President 'Sam.' My feeling on the issue is, when Josh is extremely annoyed or extremely earnest, and the two of them are basically in private, I think he would call the President 'Sam.' That's just what I think, anyway. Per requests, Sam pops up in the next bit. If you stick with me, more of our favorite first generation Wwers will appear in the next bits.

Also, I need some input from you guys: If each of the original Wwers had a favorite American author, who would it be?

Thanks!

BTW, I am now posting on as well, under slimwhistler.

Feedback: Need I say it? Yes, please. I have a Philosophy midterm which I'm dreading, and feedback would make it all better!

* * *

5 Years Later 

It's shaping up to be a good summer, I think, as I deftly sketch and shade the image of the giggling, wriggling pair of children in front of me. I sign my name with a flourish and hand over the caricature, smiling brightly as the mother fumbles in her purse for cash. A tip. Score! I nod my thanks and then turn to study the ocean.

I love it here. I love the feel of warm sand, the crash of the waves, the quiet mornings, the smell of sunscreen and candy. Hell, I even love the sounds of the arcades. In moderation.

So. I screwed up, but I got better; my family didn't give up on me, even when I wanted them to. And now here I am in the sunshine, in every sense of the word. God, I'm a sap, but there it is.

My parents agreed to leave me in peace for the summer. I just want time to myself. 21 is later than most for that, but ever since the night five years ago when Lisa found me downing Vicodin, they watched me. Even after I got back from rehab, even after graduation, even after I somehow managed to get into NYU. Mom didn't want me to go to New York, but Dad and my shrink backed me up. I grin. At least shrinks are good for something.

So. With a solid two years behind me, and independent access to my trust fund (courtesy of Leo, and my grandmother), I decided to come to Rehoboth. With some of my funds, I purchased what some might call a glorified shack. Located a stone's-throw from a fairly isolated stretch of beach, the weather-beaten structure gives me the privacy I'm looking for. Being somewhat dilapidated, I purchased it cheap and fixed up the lower level myself. My months at the ranch doing repairing and building stood me in good stead for this; the building is now definitely habitable. The"house" was basically two large rooms, an upper and a lower, and a bathroom, of course. I added slight partitions to distinguish the cooking and living areas, and secured the "folding stairs," making them a permanent fixture. While I like to do things myself, I'm not stupid, so I had a builder come and make sure the structure, especially the upper level, was safe. Now all I have to do is fix up the second floor.

No hurry, though. The first floor serves me fine, and besides, who wants to work inside on a day like this? I turn back to my sketch pad, only to have a shadow fall across it. I look up.

"I was watching you work. I hope you don't mind."

A girl, probably a little younger than I am. She's wearing flip flops, a tank top, and overalls with the legs rolled up. Her thick brown hair is in a French braid, and she's wearing oval, black-rimmed glasses. I would have thought she was much younger, except for her eyes. They're gorgeous, a deep blue that verges on purple, but sad.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I smile. "Not at all. Have a seat." I wait until she's got herself settled, sitting cross-legged on a convenient bench. I stick my pencil behind my ear and stick out a hand. "Hi. I'm Sandy."

She returns the handshake warmly. "Darrah. Darrah Morgan."

"So, Darrah Morgan," I say, as my pencil begins to subconsciously travel across the page, "what's your story?"

She stands up abruptly, flustered. "Oh, wait...I didn't mean...I can't...I thought we were..."

"Just talking," I finish. Yeah, we are. My hands just like to keep busy. They can't stay still when I have sketch paper in front of me, anyway. Give me a potato to peel or a checkbook to balance and I'll fall asleep right away." I smile. I hope that my dimples are showing. No! Not because I want to... I don't use them for that reason...usually, that is. It's just, they have a way of making people feel more at ease.

It seems to work, because after giving me a sheepish grin, she sits back down again. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just not used to..."

"No, it's my fault. I should have asked first. It's just, sometimes I barely even realize..."

"No worries." She smiles, and it goes all the way to her eyes, and my stomach does a slight, but definite, flip-flop.

Uh-oh.

I have a feeling, that...ah...I may be on my way to being...ah... monumentally screwed. I really, I mean I totally, mean that in a non-literal way, of course...um...yeah.

Oh God.

* * *

Wow. I mean, I've seen him here for a while, but I've never talked to him. I just like to watch him work. He's so... _intense_. You can see that, even from across the boardwalk. And he looked pretty cute, with all that blond hair, but I never expected...

It was the dimples. I mean, seriously, how is a red-blooded American female supposed to withstand dimples like that?

It isn't possible.

And the eyes. A deep, chocolaty brown, with flecks of gold and green.

Kinda like Bambi.

Okay, that's really bad. Way too much Disney lately. Need distraction.

Conversation. Conversation is good. Speech. Good idea. Yes.

"I guess that signifies a true artist, though. The drawing, without..." I finish lamely, in response to his raised eyebrows. Smooth.

He laughs. "I guess so.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"What, caricatures or drawing?"

"Both, I guess."

"Well, the drawing since...forever. Always. Except for..." Here he pauses, and stares of into the distance as he runs a hand over the back of his neck. "Anyways," he continues, "I've been here since May, and on and off before then, fixing up my house. But I guess I started the caricatures in June. How about you?"

"Since June, as well. I work in a bookstore."

"Yeah? Nice. Where are you living? If you don't mind me asking, that is. I was just curious..."

He's cute when he's flustered. "Above the bookstore, if you can believe it. Miss Tildy rents the rooms out to her staff, if they want."

"Miss Tildy?" He looks as though he might start snickering in a minute.

"Yes, Miss Tildy. Don't mock. She's a very... formidable person."

"You said 'mock.'"

Huh? "Yeah, I did. I like that word. Why? Is something..."

He grins, and the dimples peek out again. "Just a family thing...It just reminded me of something. So, listen, I've got to..."

Suddenly, his words are drowned out by a shrill cry of: "Mommy!"

"Uh-oh," he murmurs, and before I can say a word, he heads off in the direction of the cry. I follow, and quickly see the source: a little boy, about four or five, in swim trunks, t-shirt, and sandals, covered in sand and splotches of tears.

"Hey, buddy," Sandy says, "what's wrong?"

"I can't find Mommy!" he sobs. "I went to the window to look at the hermit crabs, and when I turned around she was gone!" He breaks down, and Sandy pats him on the back.

"Honey," I say, kneeling down, "what's your name?"

"Emmett," he replies tearfully.

"Hi, Emmett. I'm Darrah, and this is my friend Sandy. We're gonna help you find your mom, okay?"

"Okay," he whispers.

"Where do you live, bud?"

"In a hotel. A pink one."

I look around. There are at least half a dozen pink hotels along the boardwalk. "Okay," Sandy says cheerfully. "Good start. But Emmett, my friend, before we do anything else, I have to ask you a very important question, okay?"

Emmett nods, biting his lip.

"Do you," Sandy waggles his eyebrows, "like ice cream?"

Emmett giggles slightly, then nods quickly. While I'm relieved that he's no longer crying, I try and catch Sandy's eye. Everything I've learned from babysitting tells me that you don't give kids food their parents didn't authorize, especially sweets, and especially when they're this young, no matter what they say. But Sandy's already off and running.

"Thank goodness!" Sandy says in exaggerated relief. "I was sure you were going to say no. Tell you what, once one of those nice policemen over there helps us find your mom, I'll ask her if I can take you out for an ice cream cone. Deal?"

"Deal!" Emmett cries happily.

The dimples were bad enough. There's no way I can conceivably resist this.

* * *

So. Darrah and me. Yeah, things have been going pretty fast, there, and really slow, too. I mean, we spend insane amounts of time together, but we haven't actually _done_ anything, beyond some kissing, and, ah, snuggling. Which actually suits me fine. There's no way I'm pushing her; I'm her first real boyfriend, and she's shy and unsure about a lot of things.

Come to think of it, so am I. I know it might be clichéd, but I've never felt like this about a girl before. I want to be with her all the time, make sure nobody, nothing, ever hurts her. 'Cause she's hurt enough.

That's what we've been doing, finding out about one another. Her parents died in a car accident when she was nine and her older brother, Dave, was sixteen. She was in foster care for a few years, and then Dave got custody. She had to help out a lot, and work once she could, but she says it was all worth it, because she got to stay with Dave. When I think about what I was doing at sixteen or so, and how my parents had to haul me out of that hole, kicking and screaming, I can't imagine being essentially alone like that.

That's one thing I haven't told her, about the pills. I mean, what am I supposed to say? I don't want to scare her off, and I don't think, "Guess what, sweetheart? I might be falling in love with you, and oh, by the way, did I mention I'm a recovered drug addict?" would go over so well. Nope, I don't think so. I'll tell her eventually, I just...

Wait. Did I just say I was falling in love with her?

Huh.

* * *

I glance toward the door, willing Sandy to come walking in. God, I'm acting like a six year-old at Christmas. I can't help it, though, and I don't think you could blame me. The last months have just felt so, I don't know, _wondrous_.

He taught me how to play beach volleyball first. I'll never forget that day: hot sand, blue sky, fries tangy with vinegar, that sun-streaked hair falling continually over his forehead, and always, always, those warm brown eyes shining at me.

I guess you can gather that wasn't our last date.

It's just been little things: wonderful, sweet, simple things. A campfire, deliciously gooey with s'mores laughter, and kisses; loud, raucous games of Monopoly; watching the sun lower over the ocean silently as he sketched; riding the roller-coasters until we were nearly sick with giddiness; watching him play his guitar when he didn't know I was behind him; seeing him melt as I begged him to take the scruffy little dog I rescued home with him, even as he fought to say no...

Can you really blame me?

* * *

I brought Darrah frozen custard, with sprinkles, her favorite, just so I could see her eyes light up. Before I go in, I hide the cup behind my back. Once inside, I whip it out, and her eyes brighten like those of a greedy child. Just as I'm about to start teasing her, I hear a voice behind me: "You're going to have to start earning your keep around here, beatnik."

I turn. It's Darrah's boss, Matilda Wilcott. "Excuse me?"

"You can't just come in here and distract my staff and get away Scot free. I was thinking some drawings, of authors, ones people would know."

I'm dumbfounded. "Huh?"

She blows out a breath exasperatedly. "Drawings, boy, drawings! Of famous American authors! Darrah tells me you draw." When I don't respond, she presses. "Well, do you?"

"Uh, y-yes, Ma'am."

"Well, good. That's settled, then. I'll pay you, of course. You can start soon?"

"Su- Wait, what?" I am so confused.

"Honestly, boy, don't you listen? Or are you so shaggy that your hair blocks your ears? Get Darrah to explain it to you. I don't have any more time to waste." With that, she stalks off.

I whirl on Darrah. "What just happened?" I demand.

"I believe you just offered to do some drawings of famous American authors," she tells me, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

"I did not! I was, um, coerced! Bamboozled! Tricked!"

"Well, you offered," she says sweetly. "Sandy, don't pout; I'll come over tonight and we'll talk about it."

I do my best to look hopefully pitiful. "With banana bread?" Don't laugh, Darrah's a great cook; she's going to culinary school in the fall, and out of all the fabulous things she makes, her banana bread is the most fabulous. Definitely worth playing the pitiful card, jibes about my manhood be damned.

"I suppose, since you managed to behave yourself."

I am so good.

* * *

The next day, Darrah and I are sitting in Ms. Walcott's kitchen, explaining our idea. "So, like you said, drawings, fifteen of them, of American authors, Hemingway, Twain, Cather. Only not just of the authors themselves, but with characters, motifs, themes from their books, and their lives."

"But those will just be sketches," Darrah chimes in excitedly. "Color sketches, but sketches."

"I don't understand."

"Well, we were thinking: I could combine the sketches and turn them into a mural. That way it'd cost you less, and..."

Ms. Wilcott's eyes narrow. "Are you implying-"

"No, of course he's not, Miss Tildy," Darrah placates soothingly. "That's just another part of our wonderful idea!"

"Go ahead, then."

Darrah continues. "Sandy will do the sketches, so you can see them, and then the mural. And then, when he's done, it'll be so wonderful that everyone will want the sketches and we can auction them to raise money!" she concludes triumphantly.

"You can do whatever you want with it," I add quickly. "Donate it, keep it, whatever."

"Why would you do this?" Ms. Walcott asks, studying me intently.

"So I could spend time with Darrah," I say, blushing slightly in response to her beaming smile. "And, I like to make people happy. I like it when they enjoy my art."

"And what makes you think you're good enough, that people would want to pay money for these sketches of yours, hmmmm?"

"Because I am," I say firmly.

"You might just be," she says slowly.

"Thank you, Ms. Wilcott."

"You won't regret it, Miss Tildy, I promise!"

She grunts. Well, Darrah has faith in you, at least. That counts for something. You best call me Miss Tildy, boy. I don't fancy standing on formality with a beatnik who paints on my walls." She makes an abrupt exit again.

I stare at Darrah, open-mouthed. "I think the 'beatnik' thing is a term or endearment," she says helpfully.

"Incredible."


	8. The Luck of the Draw 8

See Part 1 for Disclaimer

Rating:PG

Author's Notes: Okay, guys, here it is: self-indulgent romantic drivel, as promised. I couldn't help it. I had to. I think Sandy is my favorite of my originals; I had to make him happy. And yes, I know the names Darrah and Norah are extremely similar, but that's what they wanted to be called, you know? Also, a note on Josh calling the President 'Sam.' My feeling on the issue is, when Josh is extremely annoyed or extremely earnest, and the two of them are basically in private, I think he would call the President 'Sam.' That's just what I think, anyway. Per requests, Sam pops up in the next bit. If you stick with me, more of our favorite first generation WWers will appear in the next bits.

Also, I need some input from you guys: If each of the original WWers had a favorite American author, who would it be?

Thanks!

BTW, I am now posting on as well, under slimwhistler.

Feedback: Need I say it? Yes, please. I have a Philosophy midterm which I'm dreading, and feedback would make it all better!

* * *

I grab his lucky red bandanna and tie it, in a manly way, of course, over his head. This, along with faded cargo shorts and a paint-spattered white t-shirt, constitutes his painting gear. He finished the sketches last week; they've already been matted, framed, and hung in preparation for the auction. They already had a little blurb on the auction in the local paper. So now he's doing the mural, and I can't help but sneak glances at him as he works; my guy is just too darn cute.

"Girl, do I pay you to lollygag about and ogle that beatnik of yours all day?

At the beginning of the summer, such a remark from Miss Tildy would have had me stammering apologies, but now I just turn to her and grin, because, as everyone who comes in contact with Miss Tildy eventually realizes, her bark is belied by the ever-present twinkle in her eye. "No, Ma'am, but if you would, I'm sure we'd both be grateful," I reply saucily.

"Humph. Get on with you, you crazy child."

I look at Sandy, who's just about to bust at the seams, he's holding in laughter so hard. Miss Tildy fixes him with a piercing stare and says, "You're having an unfortunate effect on that girl, you know, boy? If she weren't so happy, and you weren't painting my wall, I'd chase you out of here with a broom. So you just watch yourself, beatnik, you hear?"

He gives a mock salute, and cheerfully goes back to his painting. Shaking my head at a smug Miss Tildy, I hurry towards the stockroom.

* * *

I stretch my arms above my head, surveying my accomplishments of the day, when I hear a slight murmur below me, one that includes "ETA." ETA? That can only mean...

"Well, hello there, Samuel Junior!"

Looking around, I notice that the store has quickly emptied. Holy shit.

"Mr. President!"

He glares at me. "Have we not had this conversation before, Junior? If my godson can't call me Sam, who the hell can?"

"Well, you aren't earning yourself any favors with that Junior business, there, sir."

"Would you prefer 'Sam I Am'?" He's grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Only if you want me to, you know, _kick your ass_!" I mouth that last bit, because as much as I hate to admit it, I think the Secret Service could probably take me.

"Enough of that. Get down here, kid."

I grin and clamber down the ladder, jumping the last few steps. He rolls his eyes at me, but nevertheless decides to envelop me in a bear hug the likes of which only Sam can give. "Hey, Sam? You're kinda choking me, here."

"I only wish I could do that to your father," he mutters.

My question about Dad flies out of my head when I notice Miss Tildy staring at us in an advanced degree of astonishment. With Miss Tildy, that's a rare sight, indeed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Tildy. Here, let me introduce you. This is my godfather, Sam Seaborne. Sam, this is Miss Matilda Wilcott."

Sam treats her to his most charming smile and a display of his disgustingly impeccable manners. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilcott.

"And you, sir." In true Miss-Tildyish fashion, she quickly recovers her equanimity. "Samuel," she says, turning to me, "would you mind explaining _why_ exactly there is an internationally recognizable politician, as well as a fleet of men with guns, loitering in my bookstore at four o-clock on a Tuesday afternoon?"

After a brief look at Sam, who is struggling to control his mirth, I begin: "Well, like I said..."

"SAM!!!!!" I know that bellow. I know it very well. Its source strides hurriedly into view, as rumpled and frazzled as always.

"Sam, you had them lose the way on purpose!" Dad sputters indignantly.

"I did." Sam smirks gleefully. I just wanted to surprise my godson without you barging in and ruining everything."

"Hey, I'm stealthy!"

"No, Josh."

"I am!"

"No, Josh, you're really not!"

"But..."

"JOSH!!!"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Now then," Sam continues pleasantly. "You've just interrupted an enjoyable conversation that..."

"Oh, who gives a...OWWWW!"

Sam just stepped oh his foot. "Geez, Mr. President!"

"Behave with some dignity, would you, Josh?"

I've been deriving a great deal of amusement from these proceedings. So, from the look of it, has Miss Tildy, although if I know her, Dad's in for some punishment.

"I just wanna see my kid, Sam!" he whines.

"Um, Josh? He's standing right there."

Dad turns, and brightens immediately. "Hey, kid," he says, flashing his dimples. "C'mere." He opens his arms, and I give him a hug. "You look good, Sandman. A little on the Willie Nelson side, or something, but good."

"Willie Nelson, Dad? And didn't we stop with the 'Sandman' when I was like, I don't know, six?"

"Whatcha gonna do about it? Sue me? I happen to have very good connections," he says smugly.

"I'll say," I scoff.

"Hey, guys?" Sam. "There are some others in the immediate vicinity who are feeling rather left out, here. Besides, you know, me, because what do I matter, there happens to be a very charming lady here who appears to be itching to say something."

"Samuel, dear, I take it this is your father?" she asks, indicating Dad.

"That's right, Miss Tildy, my father. Josh Lyman." She's studying me intently. "Why?" I ask, feeling a bit unnerved.

"Oh, nothing, dear. I was just reflecting that you must take after your mother."

"And why is that?" This, somewhat hotly, from Dad.

"Because it appears he hasn't inherited your boorish manners, Mr. Lyman."

Dad's standing there, stunned, as Sam and I laugh our heads off at him.

"Don't worry, Josh," Sam soothes, patting him on the back. "I know it's a shock, but you'll get used to it. We all knew you'd reach the realization someday. I really should call Donna, though," he teases, "and warn her you'll be coming home in a state of shock because the day we have all been waiting for, with bated breath, I might add, has finally arrived."

Dad scowls, and Sam laughs. "Whatever makes you happy, sir," Dad mumbles.

I grin, crossing my arms over my chest, and wait for Dad to recover. I can tell he has when he begins to pace, circling the room animatedly. "Where are the sketches?" he asks impatiently, walking past me and casually tugging my bandanna down over my eyes. "I wanna see them," he reiterates.

"Josh, you are such a child," Sam admonishes.

"They're over here, sir." I'm not sure whom Miss Tildy is addressing, but I'd bet anything it isn't Dad.

Dad doesn't pay any attention to that, though, just bounds over to the display with a breathless "Thanks" and proceeds to rock back and forth on his heels in excitement. "Hey, Mr. President, get over here and take a look at these," he announces proudly. "Damn genius."

"A little biased there, Josh?" But he's smiling.

"Who, me? Never."

Miss Tildy is finally smiling at him; Darrah says that good parenting unfailingly reduces her to mush, and I guess she's right. "It appears you have redeeming qualities, Mr. Lyman."

"Huh?"

I am interrupted in my mocking preparations by Sam, who says, "Sandy, I'll personally top the winning bet by a thousand bucks for this Ben Franklin one."

I choke. "Are you serious, Sam?"

"Sure. For once, your father's right. This _is_ damn genius."

"Well, okay, I mean, yeah su... hey! How did you guys find out about this, anyway?"

Sam grins. "I'm President, kid, in case you forgot. The intelligence agencies work for me. I was at Dover this afternoon and decided we'd take a detour on the way back."

"Well... great,"

"It'll be even greater when we slip in the purpose behind this little visit into the briefing tomorrow morning," Dad puts in smugly. "Once people find out that the President paid top dollar for one of your sketches, this'll be a whole new ballgame."

In the middle of Miss Tildy's ensuing protest, I notice a figure weaving towards me, upper body hidden beneath a pile of books. I grin. It's got to be Darrah. "Need some help there, darlin?"

"Yeah, that would be greeeeeee—"

The pile of books teeters, and lands in a scattered series of heaps right in front of Sam. Whoops. I'm so involved in realizing that I never explained the relationship between the President and myself to Darrah, that I don't notice Dad staring at me in astonishment.

* * *

Now, I know my kid. He's always been a quiet guy, at least before you get to know him well, and he's really careful about attaching himself to people, especially after Colorado. So he's not the kind of guy to casually use a term of endearment, if you know what I mean.

Hmmmmmmm...

* * *

I can't decide what's funnier, Sam's attempts to help Darrah or her agitation as she scrabbles about trying to clean up the mess around him.

"I'm so sorry, sir. This'll just take a minute. I didn't...Did anything hit you?"

"If something had", Dad remarks drily, gesturing toward the agents, "odds are, one of them would have let you know."

Darrah pales, and I glare at him. "Dad, quit it. Leave her alone."

For the first time, Darrah notices me, and her eyes widen in confusion. "Sandy?"

I smile encouragingly, if a bit uncertainly. "Yeah?"

"Did you, did you just call him _Dad_?"

"Who, the President? No, no, this is my dad. Josh Lyman. The Chief of Staff. Sam's just my godfather."

"_Just_ your godfather," she repeats slowly.

"Yeah."

"Just your...oh, God. Sandy. Short for Samuel. Which would mean..." She gestures toward Sam helplessly.

"Yup. I'm named after him."

"Oh, _are_ you now?" Uh-oh. "Well, let me inform you of your newsflash for the afternoon, Sammo: You are in for some serious trouble. _Seriously_."

* * *

This is fabulous. I guarantee he'll never hear the end of this.

"No banana bread for you for a week," the girl informs him.

Excuse me? Banana bread? "Excuse me, but did you just punish him by withholding, ah, _banana bread_?"

She turns to glare at me, hands on her hips. "Have you ever had my banana bread?" she asks pointedly. I shake my head. "Then don't mock."

I nod, them lean conspiratorially towards Sam. "I like this one," I inform him.

"Josh. I'm sure she, you know, has a name."

Good point. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have a name?"

She rolls her eyes at me. "Yes, I have a name."

"And it is?" Sam asks promptly, eagerly.

"Darrah Morgan, sir."

"Huh," I say. "Funny name."

"Thanks."

"Any time." I flash my dimples at her, to let her know I'm just messing around, but her only response is to poke Sandy in the ribs and ask him a question: "How'd you get to be such a good guy with him as your role model?"

Sandy doesn't know where to look, and Sam's laughing again. "I, uh, I plead the Fifth," he stammers.

"Damn straight, kiddo."

* * *

I think my ears might be turning red.

Yup. From the way everyone is smirking, I'd bet they're beet red.

I've never been grateful for White House staffers before, as they usually interrupt important moments in my life with the majority of those I look up to, but today I breath a sigh of relief as a woman taps Sam on the arm.

"All right. Yeah. Thanks," Sam murmurs. "Josh? We need to get back. There's a... thing. Sorry to breeze out of here in such a hurry, everyone. Job hazard. Grand to meet you all. Sandy, good to see you, kid, and congrats on everything. Darrah, I'm sure we'll see one another again. He winks, and is gone, striding down the aisle surrounded by a flurry of suits.

"Wow," Darrah utters, "that was...amazing."

"That was the President," responds Dad proudly. "He quite often is, in one form or another. Listen, kiddo," he continues earnestly, "I've gotta run, but call, okay? Your mother's been driving me crazy, fretting at me, so make her happy, would ya? You're doing good here, Sandy. Love ya."

Without waiting for a response, he turns and jogs towards the front of the store. All of a sudden he turns, pointing a finger at me, and hollers "You call, you hear me?"

I nod, he flashes a quick grin, and then he's gone.


	9. The Luck of the Draw 9

* * *

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Feedback: Please!!!

Author's Note: Okay, guys, I know this has been going on a Sandy tangent for a while; I absolutely 'pinky swear and all other dorky such things' promise the next part will have all of our friends back (except maybe Sam), both original and otherwise. Thanks for sticking with me! Thanks as always to the fantastic Caitlin for her encouragement, and for assuring me that this bit was not horrid. :P

* * *

I step from the Sunday drizzle into the warmth of the house, disgruntled and mirroring Macky, our dog, as I try to shake the water droplets from my hair. I feel a happy jolt as I register the blare of the television, because that means that Darrah must be here.

What? She doesn't live here, she just has a key. So she can use the kitchen, on her time off, that's all, or if she needs a quiet place to crash. Like me, she values peace and quiet, and that's sometimes hard to find when you live above a bustling bookstore.

I breathe in deeply, hoping to find the scent of banana bread wafting through the house, but no luck. Damn. She's forgiven me for not telling her, but she's still enforcing the punishment, which I find inhuman. I told her she spent way too much time babysitting as a kid. Of course, that was the point at which she leveled a scathing stare at me and said, "Okay, think about what you just said and its implications. Suck it up, crybaby."

So. The punishment continues. Still, I'm happiest to see her. "Hey, sweetheart," I murmur, dropping a kiss on the top of her head as I pass behind the couch.

Surprisingly, she doesn't turn to greet me, but keeps her eyes glued to the screen. "Oh, Sandy, you have to come watch this. I love this movie."

"Yeah?" I glance at the screen quickly. "Lady and The Tramp? God, what is it with girls and Disney movies?" I tease.

"Oh, Sandy, sit down. You know you love it. Don't you?" she asks, looking genuinely alarmed.

"Sure," I placate.

"It was my favorite movie when I was little," she admits softly.

I settle down next to her and drape an arm around her. "So let's watch."

We sit in silence for a while; Macky's joined us on the couch. I'm starting to get drawn in, in spite of myself; I haven't seen this in forever. That's why I don't notice Darrah's crying until it becomes quiet sobbing, so I am startled. "Darrah?"

"This was my favorite movie," she sniffles.

"Yeah, you said..."

"No, Sandy. This was my _favorite _movie. My mother's, too. I watched all the time. All the time. I watched it...the night before, before..." she breaks off.

"Your parents?"

She nods. "I haven't watched it since, until now."

"You know, you've never told me. It might help..."

She shrugs, and a knot of unease begins forming in my chest as she begins to speak, because her voice has a strong note of bitterness and cynicism that I've never, ever heard from her before. "It wasn't anything spectacular, nothing really newsworthy, just some jerk off loser who was drunk and stoned to high heaven. Just another statistic, for the rest of the world. But for Dave and me..."

I think I'm getting dizzy. Oh God, oh God, oh God. My mind is clouded by a growing swirl of panic. Drugs. The guy who was responsible for killing her parents was on drugs. Drugs. Like I was. He did something terrible, when he was too wasted to care. Like when I shoved Liza...

Oh, God. I'd forgotten about that. How could I forget? I've been so happy, I've forgotten. Well, I won't forget now, and what's more, I've got to make sure Darrah never, ever gets hurt like that, at all, ever again. Because, what if one day, I might.... NO. I've got to protect her. The only way to do that, though, is by...

"Sandy? You look pale. Are you all right?" She's concerned.

"Um, yeah. I just got, just got, ah, _dizzy _all of a sudden. I think I, ah , better go, ah, lie down."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"No. Thanks, but no. I just need some, um, quiet."

"Well, okay," she says doubtfully. "I'll see you tomorrow then." She starts over to give me a hug, but something in my face must make her think better of it, because after giving me a hesitant smile, she leaves.

I fall on my bed with a groan. Thank God she didn't touch me, because otherwise this would be impossible. I start trying to think up a feasible excuse to distance myself from her, but nothing comes to me. I shut my eyes. It can wait until tomorrow.

* * *

This sucks. This really sucks.

I scratch at my beard absently. I started growing it just to annoy her, right beforehand. A guy can only take so many mentions of his dimples, you know? It totally took away my "tough guy" credibility, and since we broke up, I haven't cared enough about anything to worry about it.

I follow this uplifting thought with a drag on my cigarette. Shades of earlier days. What? When I'm really stressed, I smoke. It's legal. I'm no saint (although Darrah seems to think so, judging from how crushed she was when I broke up with her.)

You're free to despise me for that, by the way. I despise myself. Even the damn dog despises me. Just keeps staring at me with these big, reproachful eyes. He's ugly as sin, did I ever mention that? A real mutt. He's got the wisest eyes, though; he's generally a real pal.

Now, though, I feel like kicking him half the time.

Don't worry; I haven't done that. I'd never do that. I just feel like it sometimes. It's me I want to kick, though, really, not him. The only thing that's holding me together is the conviction that this is what's best for her. She doesn't deserve to go through that sort of hell ever again, and I can't fully guarantee that it won't happen again. I just wish...

Oh, hell, I don't know.

"Smoking kills, boy."

Huh? I turn around, and sigh. It's Miss Tildy. "Come to read me the Riot Act?" I ask irritably, stubbing out my cigarette.

"No. Just to knock some sense into you."

"Well, go right ahead," I retort snidely.

"You look like hell, beatnik." I snort, and she goes on with her diatribe, ignoring me. "She's miserable, you know that? Going around looking like a sad Basset Hound on Doomsday. For three weeks. And she doesn't deserve it. Neither, generally, do you. So I want an explanation.

"Look, we'll both have to go back to our lives soon, and..."

"Oh, be quiet," she interrupts forcefully. "You know that's not it. You go to school in New York, and she will be, too. And even if you were on opposite sides of the country you'd make it work. Do you think I'm blind? I've seen you two together often enough to know this isn't some casual flirtation. I've seen plenty of those in my time, especially here, and this isn't one." She looks at me appraisingly. "I'd wager for you, this has been 'forever' for a while now, hasn't it? More so than for her, even."

I stare at my feet, fiddle with my thumbnail. "Well?" she presses. "_Well?_"

I explode, and surge to my feet. "Yes, okay? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes." I'm breathing hard; I take a moment to calm myself. "Damn," I mutter, raking a hand through my hair.

Miss Tildy is regarding me calmly, intently. "What's going on, then? You love her, obviously."

"It's not that easy!" I mutter, pacing in agitation. "I did some stuff she doesn't know about, when I was younger. Drugs. Pills. I...I hurt my sister. Shoved her against a wall, just about dislocated her shoulder."

"Were you in treatment?"

"God, yes. Nine months of it. I had treatment coming out my ears. But that isn't the point," I insist earnestly. "Darrah's better than that. She deserves better than a...a violent ex-junkie whose parents had to drag him to treatment halfway across the country to 'knock some sense into his head,' as you put it, who might, who might..."

"How long ago was this?"

"Four, five years."

"Have you taken any since then?"

"No."

"Well, that seems to have been your choice then, hmmmm? Nobody stopped you from taking them once you left home, did they?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"Look, Sandy. Get some rest, get yourself together. Trust yourself, and trust her. I think she'll understand. She won't wait forever, though. I won't let her, if no one else. You hear me?"

She places a hand on my shoulder, and I realize that's the first time she's ever called me Sandy.

"I hear you."

* * *

I slouch cautiously into the bookstore, looking about warily. I spot Miss Tildy and raise a hand in greeting; she stares a moment and then nods, indicating towards the back of the store.

I walk slowly, coming up on Darrah from behind. If it were any other time I would announce my presence by tugging on her ponytail, but now I don't feel as though I have the right to touch her. "Darrah?" I say hesitantly.

She turns, eyes widening a bit before flicking away. She's trying hard to act disinterested, but I can see her lower lip quivering a little. "Look, can we talk?" I ask.

"I'm working right now."

"I can see that." Her eyes meet mine again, challenging, so I hurry on, trying to atone for my sarcasm. "Look, I don't think Miss Tildy would mind. Just come with me. Please?"

She bites her lip, considering. "All right."

After another nod from Miss Tildy, we're out the door and I'm wondering where exactly I should start.

* * *

It's like he's a totally different person. Not just the way he looks, although that did shock me. He just seems so ill at ease, unsure. His shoulders are hunched, his hands plunged deep into his pockets, and he kicks his feet absently. Not like my Sandy at all. Every part of me is screaming that I should revel in his discomfort, that he deserves it, but I can't. I love him too much, I realize with a jolt.

"Look, Darrah," he begins tentatively, interrupting my thoughts, "there are some things I should tell you...

* * *

I can't believe it. Sweet, gentle, considerate Sandy. Nothing he's telling me fits into my idea of him, even after the happenings of the past few weeks.

"...So when you told me, I just panicked. Everything just came back. I hadn't thought of it in so long, after being with you, and it just, it just shook me all over again. It took so long with Liza, to get back to something even approaching normal, we still don't...I felt so afraid...I didn't want to risk hurting you that way, seeing that look of contempt in your eyes directed at me, ever. I'm sorry, Darrah. I really am. None of this is your fault. I just thought you deserved...I just wanted you to know. That's all," he finishes, his voice soft, gravelly. He turns and begins to walk away.

I can't bear it.

"Sandy." He turns, with a small gleam of hope in his eyes, and I give him a tiny smile. "C'mere," I say softly, with a slight shrug. His eyes widen, and he takes a deep breath, but he doesn't move. I take matters into my own hands, going to gather him into a hug with a sigh. "You idiot," I murmur, "why didn't you just _tell_ me?

"I thought you'd hate me," he mumbles, "hate me for being weak, for being like that guy, that guy who..." He trails off, shaking, and I hug him tighter, pressing a kiss onto the top of his head.

"Sandy, what would make you think that? Okay, so I am bitter when it comes to drug use, obviously, but you can't imagine that I would arbitrarily think less of you for it. You're strong, Sandy, to have come through that, for having fought, for being able to forgive yourself enough to make a life. If anything, I love you more for it. I love _you_, Sandy." He raises his head to stare at me, those big brown eyes of his gleaming with tears, and I continue. "And I'm sorry if I...if I ever made you feel like you couldn't share with me." He's shaking his head emphatically, but that doesn't assuage all of my sudden guilt. But then he speaks.

"You amaze me, Darrah."

He offers his hand shyly, and I take it with a smile, and we walk along in silence.

* * *

Later, at his house, we can't seem to stop touching. Not passionately, just intimate, in a sweet, comforting way. We're sitting on the steps; I'm leaning against him, his arms are around me, enclosing me, and I've never felt so secure, so calm. I look up to find him staring at me so tenderly that my heart feels as though it might burst. With a contented sigh, I snuggle tighter, and his grip tightens.

"Sandy?"

"Hmmm?"

"You look different, you know."

"Yeah, I noticed," he laughs.

"Why?"

"Oh, new beginnings, I guess."

"You couldn't do something less drastic, like nipple piercings or something?"

"_Nipple piercings_?" He looks horrified. "Darrah, come on."

"Sorry," I giggle. "It's just, you don't look like my beatnik anymore," I say, half jokingly, half mournfully, trailing my finger along the partial beard around his mouth and chin.

"What, so I'm not hot anymore?" he mocks.

"Did I say that? No, sweetie, you're definitely hot. Actually," I muse, tilting my head, "it's a really good look for you. It'll just take some getting used to, is all."

"Yeah," he says, running a hand over his close-cropped hair self-consciously. "I just, I felt like I finally reached a place where I could finally put some things, the 'old me,' completely to rest, you know? Like, I was different, so I needed to look it too." He pauses, embarrassed. "Ok, so does that make any sense or was it just a really girly thing to say?"

I tap a hand against his mouth. "What have I told you about gender stereotypes?"

"Ummmm, that they are very, very bad and if I ever... He stammers, reddening as he rambles on, only to find me grinning at him.

"You did that just to make me squirm!"

I laugh. "Smart boy."

And then suddenly he's kissing me softly, and when he lets go it takes me a minute to catch my breath. "Very, _very_ smart boy."


	10. The Luck of the Draw 10

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Feedback:A Halloween treat! Pretty please! I finished this as opposed to studying for my chem. exam. It was more fun, and I'm really proud of this and the next bit ( I split what I wrote into two), so I'd really like to hear what you think! I shall be studying feverishly until Wed., so feedback would brighten my day, as usual.

Notes: Okay, this part is unbeta'd, as I am impatient. I read it over numerous times, though, so hopefully it's okay.

P. S.: I hope you have all had a "bewitching" Halloween (heehee) with plenty of sugar. 

* * *

We're singing. "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch." Yup. Dancin' around in the kitchen in our bare feet, usin' utensils as microphones, and singin'. Ever notice how the simplest songs are the most fun to sing along to?

Darrah made French toast; as a man raised by Donnatella Moss, I have had it pounded into me that when a woman cooks you breakfast, you clean up. So here I am, cleaning. Darrah's helping, though; it's more fun with company.

We're good again. We've slowed down some, trying to regain some of our lost footing, but this weekend the family is descending for four days, so Darrah's around to see the chaos that is the Lyman-Moss clan, and to cook, of course. I can cook, well, some, but Darrah pretty much blows anything I can do out of the water. And she actually _likes_ it, which boggles my mind, but I'm not going to question a good thing.

Especially not right now. I'm singing. Off-key, but singing. I grab Darrah's hands and twirl her, then whip around, my spatula mike at the ready. I expect to see the living room, maybe Macky running for cover, but instead I see my family: Adi, leaning against the wall, eyes bright; Norah, stifling a laugh; and Dad, smirking. I should be deathly embarrassed, but I grin instead. "Hi, guys!"

"Well, gee, look at the tough guy, here!" Dad says, coming forward to clasp me in a tight hug. "What are you supposed to be, a wrestler now or something? I don't know, Darrah, should I be scared?"

I look over at Darrah. Her face is still beet red from being caught dancing, and her hands alternate between tugging on the hem of the boxers she stole from me and nervously brushing nonexistent crumbs from her t-shirt. I playfully pull her towards me and drape an arm around her shoulder. She smiles up at me. "No, he's just a big teddy bear."

At that, Norah guffaws, and I shoot Darrah a mock angry glare. "What are you trying to do, undermine my image, here?"

"Deal with it."

Hmmph. As I stew, she introduces herself to Norah and Adi, and then disappears to change. I turn towards my family.

Norah speaks first. "Well hey there, Mr. Macho. Let's keep one thing straight: you'll never be too big for me to kick your ass, understood?"

I grin. "You wish."

Norah flashes a smile in return, and opens her arms. "Get over here, little man. It's been too long."

"Well, between Phil and law school, I'm not too high on the list, now am I?" I tease, and she grimaces. "And I would jut like to point out to the assembled company that I _am,_ in fact, bigger than you." She opens her mouth to protest, and I hurry on. "Hey, where is Phil anyway?"

"Getting stuff from the car with Mom," Norah replies. "Speaking of which, smile," she commands. I oblige her obediently. "You're gonna be in trou-ble," she chants.

"Why?"

"The dimples. The beard hides the dimples. Mom's gonna yell at you."

I look at Adi. "Back me up on this, man. They were totally destroying my credibility."

He nods in agreement, musing, "That's a good idea, come to think of it. Maybe I should…"

All of a sudden he grabs me and tackles me to the ground, and Dad follows, and they start tickling. Now, the other bane of my existence, besides the dimples, is that I am extremely ticklish. Still. I never quite grew out of it, a fact of which Dad and Adi are mercilessly taking advantage. I usually catch the signal, but I was distracted. "C'mon, guys," I gasp weakly, trying to wriggle out of their grasp. "No fair. Oh, jeez, stop, would ya? C'mon." But they only increase their intensity, and I chortle helplessly. Darrah's back, and she's laughing her head off. I try to frown, but it's impossible like this.

"Gentlemen?" As always, we look up to see Mom standing over us, exasperated. "Could you let my baby boy up so I could say hello to him for the first time in three months?"

Sheepishly, they let me up. "Not such a tough guy after all, are ya?" Dad crows.

"Yeah, baby," Adi taunts good-naturedly. "Go see your mommy."

"You guys are such Neanderthals." Norah.

"And as such, you are eminently suited for getting things from the car. Car. Go. Now." Mom says. They hurry out, and she turns to me. "Hi, sweetheart." She enfolds me in a warm embrace, and then tilts her head back to study me. "Look at you," she says softly, brushing a hand over my hair. You're so…grown up."

I laugh. "Mom, I'm twenty-one. It's about time, don't you think?"

"No. You're a baby still. Mine." She's teasing, but her eyes are sad, and…

"Mom, are you crying? Don't do that. Don't, please," I beg.

She gives me a hug and smiles, but her smile turns quickly to a frown.

"What?"

"Where are the dimples?"

'Told you,' Norah mouths, and I make a face at her.

"Um, they're on my face, Mom."

"Well, I realize that, honey, but why am I not seeing them?"

"Um, because I have a beard that you're seeing instead?"

"And why did you find it necessary to grow said beard?"

"Really?' She nods. " 'Cause I got tired of certain people making such a fuss over said dimples," I say smarmily.

She smacks me lightly. "Honestly. What am I going to do with you? Well, don't you dare grow a full beard, okay? The idea of my baby with a full beard is just too frightening to contemplate."

"Okay, Momma,' I say, falling back on the baby name I had for her. "Unless I think of a better reason for doing so," I add slyly.

She ignores me, and smiles at Darrah instead. "Is he this obstinate with you?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't do a better job in curbing that tendency. Feel free to blame his father. That's where he got it from. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. I was just so excited to see him, since he barely…ever…comes…home," she enunciates slowly, glaring at me. "I'm Donna.'

"Darrah."

"It's so nice to meet you finally, sweetheart. Josh told me about you, and Sandy did too, of course, in the few postcards he managed to send," she adds pointedly. I duck my head, but late enough to see Mom gather Darrah up in a hug, and Darrah cling to her a bit longer than absolutely necessary. I soften, contemplating how long it's been since Darrah's had a hug from a "mom" in her life.

Everyone comes in from the car, Dad griping at Mom about all the stuff she brought, Adi and Phil arguing baseball. They're all here. Family. It's kinda…nice.

All except Liza.

"Liza's not coming," I say flatly.

"No, honey, she is," Mom says reassuringly, squeezing my arm. "She's driving, is all."

"From _California_?"

Liza took after CJ; she goes to Berkeley, but she's majoring in theatre. In high school, after my…_thing, _she really started to get into it. Not acting, so much, but set design, costuming, tech. My shrink informed me that it was probably because she needed or wanted to lose herself in something, rather than deal with her feelings toward me. Yeah.

Anyway, so she's doing an internship at some theatre out there, and performing with an improvisational theatre company on the weekends. Dad, of course, pitched a fit when this plan was first broached, but Liza has her own share of stubbornness. Plus, she enlisted the Sisterhood.

Still, I'm surprised Dad is so calm, considering his youngest is driving across the country. "You agreed to that, Dad?" Actually, I don't like the idea much either. We may not have the best relationship right now, but she's still my baby sister.

Dad shifts uncomfortably. "I was…forcibly overruled."

"Would you two stop?" Norah's glaring at us. "She's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She's been managing fine, and anyway, she'll be twenty in a few months. You guys don't really have a say anymore." With that, she grabs Phil's hand and tugs him toward the stairs. "Come on, Phil, let's go and grab the best bed."

Dad does an about face so quickly and comically I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Excuse me?" he says in a strangled tone. "Did you just say the words 'Phil' and 'bed' in the same sentence?"

"Dad, I'm 25, and he's my boyfriend, it's not like we haven't…"

He's paled. "Just stop, please, okay? I really don't need to know."

Norah goes over and wraps him in a little hug. "Please don't be like that, Daddy," she wheedles. "We hardly get to see each other; I'm so busy with school and he's traveling all the time, we just want to spend all the time we can together. Please don't be mad." She pouts.

Dad's lost. "Oh, god, it's the pout," he groans. "Fine. Fine. Just go away now, would you please? I need to process this."

"Thank you, Daddy." She smiles and gives him a kiss on the cheek, then drags Phil, who's looking worriedly over his shoulder at Dad, up the stairs.

Dad scowls after him. "Damn gomer," he mutters.

Adi laughs and punches him on the shoulder, then goes to find a place to bunk. "Yeah, laugh now," Dad yells. "Just you wait!"

"Relax, Josh," Mom soothes. "As much as we hate to admit it, they're not kids anymore." She smiles at me as she says this, then continues. "I know it's hard, realizing that you're not the one she'll run to first anymore, but she _will_ always come home, you understand?"

Dad closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Mom's; he doesn't say anything, and he doesn't need to.

He gives us all his little half smile as he walks, alone, out to the car.

* * *

We're playing Cranium. Dinner was a success by the way, even though Dad did compare the pesto sauce to snot before he ate it. And yes, he got slapped for it. Once he tasted it, though, he gobbled it like a pro.

Liza's here. She arrived just before dinner. It was…awkward. She looks great, though. She's got on this oxford shirt she snagged from Dad, but she put new buttons on it, as well as a new collar and cuffs. It's awesome, really individual. When I opened the door and saw her, all long legs and with sunglasses holding back her long blond hair, it was hard to reconcile her with the image of my baby sister in my head, the one who tagged after me and thought I walked on water.

The past tense is important here.

I tune in to the chatter around me. "We moved on from Trivial Pursuit because your mother knew all the answers,' Dad explains to Liza sulkily. "It wasn't any fun anymore."

'Nothing's fun to you unless you win, Joshua," Mom says archly.

"Case in point," he mutters, as the Sisterhood clinches their victory.

"Phil and I are going for a walk," Norah announces.

"Not alone you're not," Dad says smugly. " I may have acquiesced to cohabitation, but moonlit walks along the ocean? You have to be kidding. Donna?"

Ignoring Norah's pleading look, Mom agrees. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I like moonlit walks too, you know."

I look towards Darrah, but she shakes her head. I should go," she says.

"Stay," I entreat her.

"Yes, do stay, please," Mom chimes in. "Then we'll have a chance to really talk."

"Where would I sleep?" she asks doubtfully. "There are already so many people here."

"You can have my bed. I'll take the couch. Besides," I say softly, in response to her protests, " I'd rather have you than the bed." She smiles, nods, and then leaves to bike home anyway, to pick up her stuff.

I look up and see Liza staring at me, an unreadable expression on her face.

* * *

I'm sitting on the steps, waiting for Liza. I'm getting kinda itchy for a cigarette, but Darrah would kill me.

Liza's been gone a while. I don't like this.

She was "dressed for success," too, with that bright red halter top, and not the kind of success I'd congratulate her on, either. And yes, I know if I said that aloud I'd get scalped by all the females within hearing distance, but she's my little sister, and I don't like it.

And it's not like her, not the Liza I remember.

Finally I see her, walking slowly towards the house, her shoes in her hand. Her head is down, and as she comes closer I hear her crying.

"Liza?"

She jumps, startled, and looks up at me. "God, Sandy, you scared me! I didn't, didn't see you."

Her mascara is running a bit, and her arms are around her middle, defensive.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." She turns to go into the house, but I grab her arm, and I hear a sharp hiss of breath. I look down, and my eyes narrow into angry slits. There's a circle of dark bruises around her wrist.

"Who did this?" I ask icily.

"Don't worry about it. It's not that…"

"Sit," I say firmly. "Start talking."

She glares at me, but begins speaking: "I went to this bar downtown, to play some pool. It was fun, but then the guys started getting drunk, and this one really started to hit on me. I told him no, but he just kept on. Finally I tried to leave, but he grabbed me. He was really big, really strong. He…he called me a…a frigid little bitch," she wails.

I put my arm around her protectively, but inside I'm seething. "So then what happened?"

She gives me a watery smile. "I kicked him in the balls."

I chuckle and pull her closer. "Go Berkeley feministas,"I murmur.

"Are Mom and Dad and everyone back yet?"

"Not yet, luckily for you." I notice she's shivering, so I pull off my sweatshirt. "Here. You must be freezing in that halter thingy. It'll cover the bruise, too."

"Thanks, but I'll just go inside."

"Just take it. Besides, we're not done yet."

She sighs, but puts on the sweatshirt.

* * *

This sweatshirt feels like heaven. It's got that big brother smell, comfort made of detergent, cologne, wood smoke, and sunscreen. I really was cold, too.

"So. What's this about, Li?"

"What do you mean?"

"The halter top, and…everything. It's not like you."

What? Oh, boy, did he just step in it. "Okay, firstly, I am free to wear whatever I damn well please, and for your information I wear this and other similarly fetching ensembles frequently at school. It's none of your damn business. Secondly, where the hell do you get off telling me what I'm like or not? You don't _know_ what I'm like anymore."

"I'm your brother."

"Yeah, well, you could've fooled me."

He looks hurt. Good. "What?"

"Sandy, when's the last time we talked, really talked?" He looks away. "Right."

"It's not like I don't want to talk to you…" he begins softly.

"Then why the hell don't you?"

He looks up, surprised. "I didn't think you wanted me to."

"That's not true."

"Well, you never seem particularly eager, so I thought I'd just leave you be."

"What?"

"You always seem so closed off when we talk. I didn't want to push things."

"I just don't, don't want to do anything wrong again. And I never figured out what I did the first time, so…"

He's staring at me, openmouthed. "What?"

"You know, when you…" I trail off.

He rubs his eyes tiredly, and looks toward the ocean. "Oh, honey, you didn't do anything, none of it was your fault."

"Then why…?"

"Because you were there," he says sadly. "That's all. It was just chance. I exploded, and you got hit with the shrapnel. It could have been anyone. It happened to be you. But it wasn't your fault."

"I always thought, you had to leave because of me. And, and…I didn't want you to leave!" I sob, and fling myself against him.

"Even after all that?" he asks softly, wonderingly, stroking my hair.

"Don't you know how much I idolized you? You were my hero, smart, and funny, and sweet, and always drawing me those pictures. I damn near worshipped you."

"I'm sorry, Li."

"So it hurt when you never talked to me about anything, besides apologizing. You never asked me about school, or drama, or threatened to beat up the boys I was dating. I missed that. I missed _you._"

"I just didn't want to hurt you again. I was so scared of hurting you again. I was afraid that you were angry at me, and I didn't think I could deal with the rejection, although I totally deserved it."

"Well you did hurt me, although maybe not in the way you imagined. I felt like _you_ rejected _me_, like you blamed me for finding you out."

"Oh, babydoll, no. I'm grateful to you. You saved my life, you know that?"

I snuggle closer, and we look up at the stars. "I guess I was jealous," I say after a while.

"I'm sorry?"

"Of Darrah," I explain. "And no, before you start thinking incest, not like that. It's just, she makes you so happy, you're so comfortable together. I could see it after five minutes. You share things. And it just reminded me that you never do that with me anymore."

"So that's what tonight was about."

"Sorta, yeah. I wanted to piss you off," I admit guiltily.

"Listen," he says seriously, "don't do that again, okay? Don't run away from what's really bothering you. I've done it enough for both of us, and if it hadn't been for you, I'd probably be dead right now, either literally or figuratively. Sorry," he says as I stiffen, "but it's true."

"Can we not talk about that?"

"You read my mind. Enough's enough. Come on, Miss Tinkerbell, let's go make hot chocolate. I got you those rainbow marshmallows."

"You remembered?"

"Of course I remembered. What kind of big brother would I be if I fed you the regular marshmallows?"

With that, he turns and jogs toward the house. "You comin,' Tink?"

"Yeah." I'm Tink again. Yay.


	11. The Luck of the Draw 11

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Feedback:A Halloween treat! Pretty please! I finished this as opposed to studying for my chem. exam. It was more fun, and I'm really proud of this, so I'd really like to hear what you think! I shall be studying feverishly until Wed., so feedback would brighten my day, as usual.

Notes: Okay, this part is unbeta'd, as I am impatient. I read it over numerous times, though, so hopefully it's basically okay.

Many of you have been asking for a Darrah/Donna moment or two…or three. They will be coming…probably not the next bit but the one after…hopefully I will live up to the expectations.

A word of advice: When writing, and trying to wind up a story, never listen to the Drifters. I fully intended to end this after two more parts, but I was listening this morning, to "This Magic Moment" and "Some Kind of Wonderful" and "Stand By Me," and this caused Liza to begin a covert operation for a romantic part of her own in my head. So, you shall be treated to three more parts, not two. Thank the Drifters, as well as a petulant Liza, who whined until I listened to her! :)

P. S.: I hope you have all had a "bewitching" Halloween (heehee) with plenty of sugar. 

* * *

I jog back from the bakery. I went to get muffins. Yes, I can make muffins myself, and they're good, but these, these are _fabulous_. Fresh blueberries turn the entire muffin blue, and there are fat sugar crystals on top. They're not overly sweet or perfumey, either.

Walking towards the house, I notice that Josh is up, reading the paper, sitting in the armchair next to the couch on which a sleeping Sandy is sprawled.

I don't really know what to make of Josh. Donna's great, Phil's hysterical, Liza and Adi are sweet, and Norah's nice. I'm a little in awe of her, but she's nice.

But Josh? I don't know; he's confusing. He's ridiculous, sweet, intense, caring, and an occasional, okay frequent, asshole. Which Josh is the real Josh? I mean his family obviously adores him, for all their arguing, and vice versa, but I just can't figure him out.

Josh doesn't look up as I quietly enter the house; I figure he's too engrossed in his paper. When I look closer, I realize he's not looking at the paper, he's looking at Sandy, who's sprawled out with his arm flung over his head. Josh has this gooey, tender look in his eyes, and a tiny smile on his lips. Awwwwwww.

As if that weren't enough to start me tearing up, Josh bends over him, all "six feet and some" of him, and kisses the top of his head, stroking it a moment. Then he gently readjusts the covers, and with a sigh both contented and wistful, he settles back down to his paper.

Awwwwwwwwwwwww.

"Josh."

He looks up, surprised, and then his face reddens in embarrassment. "Darrah," he says cautiously. "How long have you been there?"

God, the man is so transparent. "Long enough."

"Yeah. Um, so I guess I have this weird thing about watching them sleep."

"Don't worry, Josh, I won't tell the Republicans what a closet sentimentalist you are." He looks up sharply, and I laugh at him. "Actually," I say softly, " I wish I knew if my father ever looked at me that way."

"I'm sure he did, sweetie." His eyes are warm and full of compassion, and he takes my hand in his.

"Wait, how did you know?"

"Um, I may have done a teensy bit of, um, research."

"Seriously?" He looks like a six year-old with his hand caught in the cookie jar, and that seals it. I now officially adore him. "Wow. I really posed that much of a security risk?" I tease.

"Well, I wouldn't say _that_, exactly…" He looks up to find me grinning. "You're messing with me," he states.

"Yup."

"Okay then. What's in the bag?"

"Muffins."

"Don't you make those yourself?"

"These are special. Want one?"

"Sugar in the morning? Heck, yeah." He grins, and then looks around cautiously. "Don't tell Donna, okay?"

I throw a napkin at his head.

* * *

God, I needed this. I stretch out, savoring the beat of the sun's rays on my back. Maybe I should transfer to a law school by a beach somewhere. Heck, maybe there's one _on_ a beach somewhere.

Darrah, Liza and I lazing the day away on the beach. Perfect. The guys went fishing, and Mom's getting stuff ready for CJ's arrival later.

Darrah's sweet. Perfect for Sandy. She's quiet, but no pushover. Sometimes I have trouble believing she and Liza are the same age. In some ways she's so much older, and in other ways much younger, more unsure of herself. I like her, though. A lot.

I watch the progress of Liza and Darrah as they make their way towards me, lemonade and fries in hand. They flop down beside me, and we dig in. Darrah pauses to lift her thick ponytail off her neck and wipe at beads of sweat dribbling down her back. "God, it's hot," she moans, piling her hair on top of her head.

"You know, Darrah…" Liza begins.

I cut her off. "Liza, if you even _think_ the word makeover I will personally flail you with every copy of "Clueless" I can find, and then brain you over the head with a blow dryer."

She glares at me, miffed. "Geez, Nor, how shallow do you think I am? I was merely going suggest an idea for consideration…"

I roll my eyes. "Hey, I have a sense for these things. I'm in theater," she defends.

I groan, but Liza doesn't hear, she's too busy babbling to Darrah about fashion this and fashion that. "… and you just might drive Sandy absolutely crazy, even more than you already do," she concludes triumphantly.

I make no pretense at stifling yet another groan. Two pairs of wide blue eyes stare at me. "What?" Liza asks.

"Now it starts." After today, I think I'll be eligible for official martyrdom.

* * *

I slip my arms around my mother's waist, chuckling as she jumps. "Hey, Momma."

"Sandy! You scared me! You're as bad as your father!" she scolds.

"Good-o." I grin. "I came back ahead of the rest of them. Can I help?"

"Could you grab the groceries from the car? And maybe squeegee the windows?"

"_Squeegee _the windows_?" _I sputter. She looks at me. "Okay, sure thing," I amend hurriedly.

"Thank you."

* * *

"Well, well, well," says a voice behind me. "Looking to grace the next cover of GQ, are we?"

I turn and grin broadly. "Hey, CJ!"

"Well, hi, gorgeous."

"How are you?"

"Just fine, of course. Am I ever not?"

"Good point."

"You know, you really know how to make a girl regret her age, there, buddy."

"CCCCCCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-JJJJJAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY!!!!"

"What, am I that repulsive?"

"Nooooooo," I stammer, "but…"

"I was kidding, pal. Relax, wouldya?"

The door opens, and Mom rushes out, and the two reunite like they haven't seen each other in years. At my incredulous stare, CJ frowns. "No mocking of the Sisterhood on my watch," she proclaims. I bite my lip, and she glares. "Wash windows, oh young one."

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

Adi and Phil are making fun of Dad for being squeamish. Seems he can't stand to touch fish. Figures.

I really want Darrah to meet CJ. Like, now. I miss her. I've barely seen her all day. They were just going to the beach, and it's almost six. Where are they? I feel a niggle of worry; I can't help it.

Suddenly, Phil lets out a long wolf whistle. I look around, and my mouth drops open.

She's got on this lacy, white spaghetti strap tank, paired with dark blue jeans that emphasize every curve of her body. Her hair's different, too. Short. Kind of like Meg Ryan's in that "You've Got Mail" movie that Liza made me watch once, although not as messy. It's flippy and cute, and looks great on her. But now I know what she felt like when she asked me why I couldn't just get nipple piercings.

No, I'm not a possessive chauvinist. It's just, Darrah's special. There's something so, I don't know, refreshing about her. She seems so innocent and sweet, but it's deceptive. She's strong and tender and wise and a force to be reckoned with. She's so unselfconscious, so genuine. I thought she was above all that "look at me" type stuff. I mean, _I've_ always thought she was sexy as hell, even right after she wakes up in the morning. Especially then, in fact.

Okay, so maybe I have her on a pedestal, maybe I'm holding her to a higher standard, maybe it's not fair to her. In fact, I know it isn't. But it's the way I feel. I feel betrayed, kind of.

"Son, stop with the fish impression and go talk to her," Dad says quietly. He walks over and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "You look beautiful, Darrah."

I wait. I wait while CJ and Mom gush over her. I wait while she gets hugs from Adi and Phil. I wait through the sly look she gets from Liza and the thumbs up Norah points in her direction. I wait till we're alone.

"You don't like it."

"It's not that."

"Then what _do_ you think?"

"You look fabulous. But for what it's worth, you looked fabulous before, too."

"So what, exactly, is the problem?" she asks irritably.

" I guess I just don't understand why."

"What, so you get to go off on your 'I made peace with myself so now I need to change' jaunt and I don't get extended the same courtesy?"

"You don't need to change."

"And you don't get to make that call!" she shouts angrily.

"I just, I thought you were above all that," I say, and even to my ears it sounds pathetic.

"My god! What do you think I am, a goddess or something?"

"Maybe."

"Unbelievable." She sighs, and begins speaking quietly. "Sandy, do you know how long it's been since I've done something entirely frivolous, thought of nothing and no one but myself for once? Ten years. Ten years, Sandy. Since my mother and father died, it's always been about something, or someone, else. Not being any trouble to my foster parents. Helping Dave support us, lessening his burden by staying home, staying safe, on the weekends. Taking care of little brats whose mothers have money to blow on whatever their materialistic hearts desire and are still stingy on tips. Oh, they weren't all like that, but…. I haven't had the luxury of only worrying about myself, of really sitting down and figuring out what I want, what kind of person I really want to be. Or the luxury of forgetting about those worries. Until today. Do you know," she continues, "that that's the first time I've been on a shopping trip like that, one full of giggling and jokes and… bliss? First of all, I didn't have time for things like that, friends like that. I was always working. I didn't have the money either. So I guess once I got started today, I couldn't stop. Making up for lost time. I don't know. I don't know, maybe I got carried away…"

"No." I step forward to hug her. "You're right. I'm an idiot. And I don't have any say. But next time, would you give me a warning before you come waltzing home all gorgeous like that? I wouldn't mind being included, but more importantly, I would also like not to die from a sudden heart attack, like almost happened today."

"Really?" she squeals, her eyes shining, and then it really hits home, how good today was for her, how much it meant to her.

"Oh, yeah," I say, and then I lean forward to kiss her, and it's long and warm and involving, and there's forgiveness in it. "That's what it felt like. When I saw you."

"Like being out of breath for a full minute?"

"Bingo."

* * *

Dinner's over. CJ raved about it; she wants Darrah to become her personal chef. She's only half-kidding, too. We're setting up for another rousing game of Cranium, when there's an urgent knock at the door.

It's Becca, a girl who lives with Darrah above the bookstore. She nods at me and makes a beeline for Darrah, not bothering to tell her how great she looks, which is odd, 'cause I thought girls did that.

"Darrah? There was a call for you. From the army."

Darrah's face drains of color. "Dave?" she whispers.

Oh shit. See, her brother Dave was in ROTC to pay for college. He didn't start till he was twenty, so Darrah would be old enough to be emancipated when he was stationed. Even so, he managed to wrangle a posting relatively close while she finished high school. He's in Germany now, so I don't really know what could have happened.

"- the guy said he'd call again, but not when. He wouldn't tell me anything other than that," Becca says apologetically, squeezing Darrah's arm sympathetically.

Darrah reaches down and picks up a glass. "Hon? Darrah, honey, what…"

Suddenly, she throws the glass down, wincing as it shatters. "Dammit!" she screams, and then, bursting into tears, she runs out of the house.

"Shit." Without another thought, I follow her.

* * *

A few minutes later, I lead a subdued Darrah back into the house. Once inside, she runs straight into Mom's open arms. I flop into a chair, drained, and survey the somber faces around me. All except one. "Where's Dad?" I ask, and Adi points, a small smile forming on his face.

There he is. Pacing, gesticulating, hair standing up wildly. On the phone. He's on the goddamn phone. Son of a bitch. I grin, sit back and listen.

"Listen, Bill, I'm sorry, but I need this to happen now. Right now…Yes, right now, as in the next two minutes, tops. Thank you…Morgan, Lieutenant David Christopher Morgan. And I want to talk to the doctor, you understand?…Well, good, I'm glad you figured that, now put him on. Doctor? Josh Lyman. Can you tell me of Lieutenant Morgan's condition right now?…Ah. Mmmmm-hmmm. Yeah. Wow. Yeah, okay. Thank you, Doctor. Sorry to disturb. Bill, you there? Yeah. Thanks. I really appreciate it. Good night, Bill. Thanks. You too. Bye."

He shuts off the phone and takes a deep breath.

Then he goes over to Darrah, curled up on the couch, and bends to her eye level. "It was a Jeep accident. It flipped over, there was some fire. He's pretty beat up. Both legs are broken, a couple broken vertebrae and broken ribs, burns, scrapes, bruises. A concussion. But you know what, hon?" he says, smoothing away a few of the tears that are running down her face. "He's gonna be fine. He's gonna be fine. And you can talk to him tomorrow, okay? I promise absolutely that you can. It'll be fine, sweetheart."

And then Darrah does something totally unexpected. She hurls herself up and into Dad's arms and squeezes him tight. And Dad, an expert from years of practice, rocks her and hugs right back.


	12. The Luck of the Draw 12

Okay, guys, here it is. I hope you like it. As you may remember, I started this part a long time ago, when I actually had the inclination to check the State Dept. website for info on "dangerous countries", so the whole location thing may be a bit outdated. But the locale doesn't really matter. I don't know if the situation is realistic at all; I make no assumptions about that, so feel free to yell. My excuse for feedback this time? My scooter got a flat tire (it's what I use to negotiate campus, as opposed to my crutches), so I have left my room a grand total of three times since Friday morning. They're supposed to come fix it tomorrow morning; cross your fingers. Between the election, my horrid chem. test, and this, it's been quite a red letter week; the S3 box set has been the only saving grace. Anyhoo, so the point to this is that feedback is the elixir against all manner of evils.

* * *

1 Year Later

The phone trills loudly and I pick it up, hoping, dreading, as I have with every phone call over the last four months.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Lyman? This is Tom Billings at the Embassy in-"

"Yes?"

"We have some information for you..."

* * *

Why in the hell did I ever let him take that job?

Okay, so you might have been thinking, with all the stuff that seems to happen in our family, that Adi being a foreign correspondent was asking for it. But I couldn't say no. Not because he's an adult and I really have no right to do so; we all know I could have found a way around that. It's his idealism, his faith in mankind, his desire to "make a difference," to use the old I. How could I squash that? I didn't have the heart, not when it came to my son.

But now I wish I had.

He and Phil and some other reporters have been missing for four months. They went to Afghanistan to cover the continually foiled UNHCR efforts, and also to lay the groundwork for covering the elections. Their convoy was ambushed and they were taken. Taken.

* * *

"We have reports that U.S. forces advanced on a terrorist camp early this morning. Amongst other things, they had information that a group of American journalists were being held there. Right now we cannot verify this information, or the identities of the possible hostages. There's still fighting going on at the site."

"Mr. Billings, do you have any idea, any inkling, of when hostilities might cease?"

"No, sir."

"Well, keep me updated, and let me know if you get anything, anything, you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

I cannot panic. I cannot panic.

But there's this awful sense of déjà vu setting in, and it's making my chest constrict with fear.

I'm going to Germany. Again.

All I heard on the phone was that they're alive. Both of them. And it's bad. I didn't wait for more, I just got on the next plane.

Donna's at home, with Liza. They wanted to come, of course, but I needed to move fast. And somebody should be at home.

Trouble is, I don't know how I'm going to do this alone.

* * *

Josh can't be there alone. Not now. Not with this. You know why. He needs someone there who knows, who can be there 24/7 if need be.

So I'm sending Sandy.

I couldn't tell Norah, especially with her being nearly out of her mind worrying about Phil. About both of them. I couldn't spring the PTSD on her now.

But Sandy knows, and he's going, and that's that.

* * *

"Mr. Lyman?"

I turn abruptly. "Yes?"

"I'm Major Rawlings. I-"

"I need to see them," I interrupt. "Before you tell me anything, I need to see them."

"Sir, I really think-"

"Look! My son and his best friend have been missing for four months, enduring God knows what. I answer directly to the President of the United States, who, I might add, is at this very moment waiting for an update on their condition. So..."

I'm breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating, at this point. The doctor sees, and lays a hand on my arm. "All right," he acquiesces.

I follow him down the sterile corridors, images of the last time I walked through these halls playing through my head. Major Rawlings stops finally, and ushers me through a door.

Holy God. Oh, holy God.

It's Adi. Or rather, a shadow of him.

Donna always rags at him for being too skinny, but now, well, if a person could have negative body fat, Adi would be the representative poster child. His hollow cheeks are burning with fever, and his chest appears to be thick with bandages under the hospital gown. Leaning closer, I notice an angry red burn on his shoulder. It looks like.... I don't know whether I'm going to be sick, or surrender to complete rage. I look at the doctor questioningly, indicating the burn, and he nods. Holy hell. Cigarette burns.

Adi stirs, and I stroke his forehead, smoothing back his matted hair. Slowly, his eyes open, and in them, through the dullness of drugs and pain, comes recognition. "Dad?" he whispers hoarsely.

I do my best to talk around the lump in my throat. "Hey, kid," I say softly. "Long time no see."

He attempts a smile. "A little...delayed."

"No kidding," I grin slightly. "Go back to sleep now, okay? Rest. Everything's gonna be fine."

"Phil?"

"I'm taking care of it. Don't worry. Go to sleep." I kiss his forehead, and watch as his eyes drift shut. Running my hand over my face, I turn back to the doctor. "Okay," I say, "I'm listening."

I'm sitting by the bed, holding his hand, when I hear footsteps outside his door. I look up, expecting I don't know who, Norah maybe.

It's not Norah. It's a girl, a woman, who I've never seen before, standing in the door with a hand over her mouth. Her black hair curls wildly, and her light blue eyes are fast filling with tears. Hi," I say softly. "Are you someone I should know?"

She smiles tremulously. "Maybe."

"This is just a shot in the dark, here, but are you the girlfriend?" I wince at the unfortunate idiom I've just used, but at least she smiles for real this time.

"Yeah, that would be me. I'm Miri, Miri Anderson. Short for Miriam," she explains, in response to my questioning look.

She ventures farther into the room, shrugging off her suit jacket and slinging it over a chair. She sits across from me and takes his other hand. This seems to be enough for her, just holding his hand, and I know instinctively that my son has finally found the right girl. Then, with an intimacy that surprises me, because she seems like a private sort of person, she leans over and tenderly kisses his palm. "I'm happy to see him," she offers by way of explanation, blushing slightly.

"I would imagine. So am I."

"I guessed that, from how quickly you got here. I left as soon as I heard, so..."

"How'd you find out?"

"Stan called me. And I just, I just dropped everything and ran."

"Stan knows about you two?"

"We've been dating for a year and a half."

The shock must show on my face, because she continues: "Please don't be angry, Mr. Lyman. We were going to tell you all; I kept asking Adi to, but you know how he is. He kept saying he liked 'keeping it under the radar.'"

"Well, considering he's a journalist, I don't know how that worked," I say, hurt evident in my voice.

"Mr. Lyman, do you know how much people respect him at the paper?"

"Do you work there?"

"No, but I've seen it. Stan actually told me what he knew in person, at the office. At least thirty people must have stopped me on the way in, asking about them. Do you know what they call them?" she asks, biting her lip. "The Dream Team. This one woman stopped me, in tears, telling me that on her first day as an intern, Adi brought her a cup of coffee at the end of the day. He was always doing things like that, she said. For everyone. A few months ago, Stan started calling him Sunshine, grumbled that he was too damn cheerful for his own good. Adi always told me he was an even gruffer version of Toby Ziegler, but for what it's worth, I think Stan adores Adi. The respect is mutual, I think."

"He's always been a good kid."

"We talked about it once. He said he learned it from you."

What??? "Ah, most people tend to think I'm an asshole."

She grins. "Well, on the surface, yeah. But he says everyone you care about knows, when push comes to shove, you'll be in their corner."

Before I can think up a suitable reply to this revelation, Adi stirs, grimacing. Miri leans over him, and when his eyes open, a faint grin appears on his face. "Well, hey. It's the Wall Street Whiz Kid."

She smiles, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears. "You're late."

"Yeah. Sorry."

She puts a gentle hand on his forehead, wincing at the heat, then uses it to smooth back his hair. "Rest, baby. That's all you need to worry about now. I'll be here when you wake up."

" 'Kay."

As his eyes close, she traces a finger above the gash on his cheek. She takes a deep breath. "What happened?" she asks softly.

"They're not sure yet. Neither of them is really in a state to talk. Adi's got...he's got extensive bruises, broken ribs. A really bad infection. His foot's pretty mangled up. And...and there are cigarette burns."

She looks up, startled, and I nod. "Oh, God," she whispers. "What about Phil?"

"Yeah. What about Phil?"

I look up. It's Sandy and Norah, standing in the doorway.

* * *

Thank God for Sandy. I couldn't do this alone. The doctor had to give Norah something, she was shaking so badly. We told her about the coma, the extensive burns, and she just went into shock.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Sandy?'

"The doctor just told me that some people are here from the State Department. They want to talk to Adi."

"You're kidding me." I stride angrily to the lobby, ready to let them have it. "Are you kidding me?" I ask hotly. "The kid's got a 103 degree fever. He's got cigarette burns, for God's sake! Cigarette burns!"

"Josh-"

"It's Mr. Lyman to you right now," I say icily.

"Mr. Lyman, it's standard procedure-"

"Josh."

It's someone else, a friend of mine, Ken Farnham. We went to law school together. He works for State now. "We wouldn't be here if it wasn't absolutely necessary, Josh. You know that. We need to find out what happened. We'll go easy on him, I promise."

All of a sudden I feel totally and utterly drained. I'm geared up for a fight, but not prepared for compassion. "Fine. It's this way."

* * *

"Josh, maybe it would be better if you leave."

"Like hell I will," he says stonily.

"Josh-"

"Either I stay, or you go," he states flatly.

I sigh. He's just as bullheaded as he was in law school. "Fine."

"Might get ugly, Dad," comes the weak voice from the bed.

"You worry about you, okay?"

"Don't say I didn't warn..." he fades off.

I look at Josh. "Get on with it," he murmurs wearily.

I turn towards the bed. "Adi?" His eyes open. "Adi, I'm Ken Farnham. I'm with the State Department. I'm actually an old friend of your father's from law school."

"Poor you." He smiles faintly, showing a trace of a pair of dimples, and suddenly, despite everything, I'm struck by how much he looks like Josh. A young Josh, the Josh I remember, the Josh who I argued with, played ball with, and put to bed on more than one occasion, after he'd had too much to drink. I look over at Josh, see the love shining through the weariness in his eyes, and I give him an almost imperceptible nod. Without waiting for a response, I turn back to his son.

"All right, Adi, I'm just going to ask you to tell me what you remember. Anything at all, okay? If it gets too much for you, you just let me know."

"I actually don't remember much from the beginning, at least not right now. We didn't get much to eat, or to drink, and after a while it all started to seem like a dream."

"That's fine, son. Do you remember how you were hurt?"

He murmurs something I don't understand. I lean closer. "I'm sorry?"

"We were entertainment."

"Entertainment?"

"They got pretty bored, so..."

"The cigarette burns?"

He nods. "And the ribs. They knew who I was. One of them spoke perfect English. I thought I would be okay, since my credentials had 'Whittaker' on them, but he knew. He said 'You're the little Lyman bastard, aren't you? Well, maybe now we can finally let Daddy know we mean business.' I remember that exactly. I was so scared. I don't think I'll ever forget it."

I make myself continue. "Anything else?"

"Target practice."

"They used you for target practice?"

"You know, shooting just above my head, next to it, things like that. It took a piece of my hair off once."

Suddenly, I hear the door wrench open. I don't even turn around. I know it's Josh.

* * *

I'm sitting outside the door when Dad rushes out, heaving and retching. I steer him over to a trash can, and rub his back. "Dad? You okay? Dad?"

He looks at me blankly, his eyes glassy, and suddenly I can feel him shaking.

Mom told me what to watch for. I go up to a nurse. "Is there somewhere my father could lie down?"

"We don't usually-"

"Listen!" I say brusquely. "He has PTSD, and he's having an attack. He needs to lie down. Would you like me to get the President of the United States on the phone? Because I can do that."

Wordlessly, she indicates a room, and I hustle an unresisting Dad into the room. I lead him to the bed, lie him down, remove his tie and shoes. I rub his back, murmur softly, reassuringly. Especially when his hands scrabble across his chest. He starts to shake so much then that I get on the bed with him and wrap my arms around him. Eventually, finally, he falls asleep. The bed is drenched with tears and sweat. I just cover him up, turn off the lights, and go into the hall, running a hand over the back of my neck, trying to relax the muscles.

"Sandy?"

It's Norah, looking lost and sleepy. "They told me you were in here. They said Dad was...what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Everything's fine. Just go see Phil, okay?"

"Yeah." She looks so woebegone, so scared, that I do the only thing I can think of to help. I give her a hug.

* * *

I'm sitting outside the room when Dad emerges. I smile at him, but he looks decidedly...uncomfortable. And embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Sandy. Sorry that you had to see that, do that."

"Dad, remember that story you wrote to me about when I was in Colorado? About the guys in the hole? It's like that. Just returning the favor."

He smiles wonderingly, then walks down the hall, putting a hand on my shoulder as he passes. "Thank you, son."

"Yeah."

* * *

I walk slowly down the hall, clutching the stuffed Roo that Phil gave me for my last birthday. They don't make these much in the U. S. anymore; he had to send to England for it, or something. I pause outside his room, trying to get myself under control. I know it's going to be bad. When they found him, he was buried from the chest down in a pile of smoking rubble. A grenade hit the building where they were being held, and a piece of debris or shrapnel hit him in the head, or something like that. Adi was already outside. There was a girl with Phil, but she was dead; I can only assume he went back in to save her. Which is just the sort of thing he would do. He's all talk, my guy is, but when the going gets tough he hunkers down, you know?

I take a deep breath and open the door.

Oh.

He's swathed in bandages; they're everywhere. His face is covered with scratches, and he's so still. So still. Phil is not a man acquainted with the concept of stillness. It's eerie.

"Hey," I say softly. "Well, I guess I don't have to worry about you resting, huh? Oh, God, Phil, I'm glad you're here. I wish you would wake up and argue with me. You got me to do the impossible, to spend an extended period of time in a hospital. I should get something for that, right? I swear, if you wake up, I swear I'll write an ode to hospitals or something, and you know how much I hate them. See? See what you're making me do? Dammit, Phil, I told you to be careful. And you just looked at me with that patronizing grin and said, 'I'm always fine.' Well, you weren't. You aren't. And they don't know whether you will be. But I'm telling you. You _will_ wake up. I am not living without you, you bastard. You are not going to do this to me, do you hear that? _Do you hear that?"_ I'm shouting now, unleashing my rage at an inert Phil. Suddenly, I burst into tears, burying my face in the blanket at the foot of his bed.

"Are you finished yet?" a voice rasps.

I look up, my eyes fogged with tears. "Phil?"

"Hey, Roo."

"Oh, Phil, honey..."

"I never thought I'd see the day where you'd be crying with joy over me. Rage, maybe, but..."

"Shut up. You shouldn't be talking so much."

"Says who?"

"Me. And the doctor, probably. I'm going to go get someone."

"Stay. Don't go. Please," he implores.

Well, he doesn't have to ask me twice. "I feel like a shish kabob," he grouses. "I suppose I nearly was one, though, so..."

"Don't joke about it, okay?"

"Well _HEY_, Sleeping Beauty!" I look up. It's Dad, standing in the doorway, with a grin a mile wide stretching across his face. And suddenly, I get the feeling that everything might just be okay.

* * *

As usual, when I thought everything was going to be okay, I spoke, or rather thought, too soon.

When I got back to Adi's room, to tell him the good news, I found Sandy, white as a sheet, wordlessly holding Miri's hand, whose face was white as a sheet. "What? What?"

Sandy gestures toward the door, and I look in. There's a swarm of doctors, operating what looks like a... a defibrillator. A defibrillator. God. "What happened?" I ask urgently.

"His fever started climbing, Dad. The infection-his body couldn't handle it, so he...he went into shock."

"How long have they been in there?"

"A few minutes."

My God.

We wait. Minutes seem like hours. Finally, the doctor emerges, looking drained, but not solemn. Not solemn.

Not solemn.

"He's back," the doctor announces. "It took a little doing, but he's a fighter. We're upping the antibiotics and moving him up to ICU for a while, just to make sure this won't happen again. He's responsive," the doctor assures, seeing my worried glance. "Let me know if you have any questions."

"Doctor?" He turns. "You got any Doobie Brothers around here?"

He looks at me strangely, shaking his head, but I honestly don't care. I'm too busy grinning.

* * *

Today has been...well, I don't know. It's beyond definition, it's been so surreal. I don't even know what time it is. I can't remember when I got here, or when I left home. I called the apartment a few hours ago, after I heard that Phil was awake, but Drew, Sam's son, said Darrah was out, and she hasn't called back.

If I can't have Darrah, I can at least have a cigarette. Those two things are mutually exclusive, which really is a good thing, I guess, but I needed a cigarette, after today. And this is Germany. They're everywhere.

I'm so lost in my thoughts I don't notice Dad coming up behind me. "Put out that damn cigarette," he says irritably. "Are you kids trying to send me to an early grave?"

"Early? Dad, I hate to break it to you, but..."

"Watch it, little man." He sighs, then smiles ruefully. "There's a delivery for you."

"What do you mean, a delivery? I've only been here for..."

"Sandy."

I spin around. It's Darrah. This surge of love, relief, contentment, rises in me. I've never been so happy to see another human being in my life. I walk towards her a bit unsteadily, my heart pounding, and she embraces me. Securely. Gently. Wholly.

I never want to let her go.

But eventually I do, and I look towards Dad. He's smiling. "At times like this, your mother makes everything a bit more bearable. I figured it'd be about the same for you." He winks, then goes inside.

"Sandy, have you been smoking? What have I told you about that? Sandy?"

"Marry me," I blurt out. She looks taken aback, shocked. "I realize this isn't the time or the place and I don't have a ring and crap, I should be kneeling, but the street is kind of dirty and besides I've been smoking so that means there's ash around and-"

Suddenly her finger is resting against my lips, stilling them. "Sandy, do you think I care? Yes, of course. Yes, yes, yes!"

I feel like I'm soaring, but that's before I look at her face. The look on her face, it's home. _She's _home. And you know what? That's even better.


	13. The Luck of the Draw 13

Disclaimer: See Part 1

All right, guys, here we are. No angst! And a Darrah/Donna conversation! I hope it lives up to expectations; I'm not sure about it. A few quick things: I know this may not cover as much of the wedding as you might like, but the next part will. I tend to leave out the "obvious" in favor of snippets, as you might have noticed by now! Unfortunately, I only have so much time and patience, even for fanfic! I'm not sure if I shall split the reception and the rest of Liza's part into two, as the reception is an integral part of her story, but...

Yes, I know I have everyone being casual with Sam again, but they're old friends, and it's a wedding, so...there.

Yeah, so I'm noticing a certain preoccupation with BW's hair, which, you know, I'm all for, but on some level it's kinda disturbing, ya know?

Um, ya, so that's it for now. I prolly left something out, but...oh, go read!

Oh wait, I remember. Ok, so if you've been reading all of these notes and stuff, (which you prolly have if you're reading this), you might remember that in my last post I mentioned my scooter basically dying on Friday. It is now fixed, but the reason I'm mentioning it is because you may notice that Sam's son Drew uses a wheelchair. He has cerebral palsy, as do I, and you will be finding out the details of his story in a new fic I plan to do in this universe as soon as this is complete. Yes, I am writing him because I feel individuals disabled from birth(as fictional characters, anyway) are underrepresented in the media, and such. I don't have a guy perspective on it, personally, but hopefully I should be able to come up with a good story that you will all enjoy.

WHEW! Thanks for listening/ reading all that! Ok, now go read...honest!

* * *

"NO!"

"Honey, I was just thinking, in the pictures, for posterity's sake..."

"No, Mom."

"Think about it?" I wheedle, pouting.

"Mom, the pout only works on Dad. The beard stays. Deal with it. You'll have to go get your dimple fix somewhere else. Somewhere," he cautions, as a gleam comes into my eye, "that I don't want to know about, okay?"

"All right, honey." I relent. "Are you and Darrah picking up Dave later?"

"Yeah."

I grin widely at him. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks a bunch."

* * *

"Do you see him yet?"

"No. What are you so worried about, anyway?"

"Darrah, he's your brother. And he's in the Army.

"Sandy, there's-Oh, there he is! Dave, Dave, over here!"

I look in the direction she's frantically waving. And swallow. Hard. The guy, he's _huge._ A fricking walking recruitment poster. Six foot six, and broad to match. I tug frantically at Darrah's sleeve. "Where are my sunglasses?"

"You left them in the car. What do you need them for in here?"

"Darrah, you didn't tell me he's the next Jolly Green Giant! I need armor!"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, for God's sake," and without further comment, she launches herself into her brother's open arms.

I wait, somewhat nervously, as they generally make a fuss over one another.

"Dave, this is Sandy."

I shake his hand with the firmest grip I can muster. "Good to meet you finally."

"And you. Sandy, that's short for-"

"Samuel. The president is my godfather." Beat that, Rocky.

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "Well, I can handle a machine gun."

Ah, well, okay. 'Bout even, then.

My consternation must show in my face, because he laughs, punching me playfully in the shoulder. "Relax, man. I don't bite. And anyway, anyone who makes my sister this happy is okay by me."

I smile wanly, then whisper in Darrah's ear. "Let's go pick up _my_ relatives now, okay?"

* * *

We can hear Phil and Norah arguing a full two minutes before they emerge from the arrivals gate. Adi and Miri appear first, and my brother and I smile knowingly at one another. "They've been doing that, at varying decibel levels, for the entire trip," he mutters, in fond exasperation.

"What about?"

"Do they need a reason? Last time I tuned in, it was miniature golf, or something."

I laugh, pulling first him, then Miri, into a hug. They look good, both of them. He put on some weight, and other than the scar gleaming on his cheek, and the limp, which is causing him to lean on Miri, he looks the same as ever. "You look good, bro."

"I feel good."

"Do I even need to ask why?" I tease, and Miri blushes. "Seriously, man," I say earnestly. "It's good to see you."

"You too, kid."

"Hey, Sunshine, quit monopolizing the welcoming committee!" Phil calls.

I brighten. "Hey, Phil!"

"How's the world treating you, Picasso?"

"Can't complain."

"I should say not." He looks over his shoulder and grins. "Here comes Medusa. Watch out."

* * *

I get to carry the bags. Whenever I suggest that he, you know, _help, _he groans ever so slightly and starts murmuring about his burns. So I carry them. In all fairness, I'm the one who instated such rules in the first place, but it's been awhile, and he could at least offer, right?

But then he grins at me, that smug, cocky, sexy, wonderful grin, and I can _feel _his eyes dancing behind those ubiquitous sunglasses, and everything else flies out of my head. I know I said once that he wasn't Tom Cruise or anything, and I haven't changed my mind. I'm still right, but in a different way. He's _better. _

I wonder if I packed the theme music to _Top Gun_?

He wouldn't believe me if I said I wanted to jump him right now. He's been surprisingly sensitive about the burns, for all his wisecracks. There were a lot of second-degree ones, but third degree ones too, on his lower body, and he had to have skin grafts. He calls himself Quasimodo sometimes, and it makes me want to cry. But I don't. At least not in front of him. Him I just tell to shut up.

Actually, it would probably be really good for him, psychologically, if I went up and planted one on him. Almost medicinal, even.

What the hell. You only live once.

* * *

"Miri?"

"Hi, Donna."

She's sitting at one end of the couch, reading a magazine, Adi's head in her lap. One hand idly strokes his hair. She looks up at me, and we smile over him together. "He pass out?"

"Yeah. He still gets tired pretty easily. That infection took a lot out of him. Well, everything did, really."

I watch him tenderly for a moment. With his hair grown out like that, he doesn't look much older than he did when he first came to visit, to "get used" to us. There's so much of Josh in him, but so much of his own, too: His compassion, his easygoing sense of humor, his knack for reaching out to others. I would do anything for this boy, even though he's not technically mine. He feels like mine, and I suppose that's what matters.

"It was the same with Josh, after the shooting," I recount, snapping out of my reverie. "I remember, I used to sit with him like this. I loved watching him sleep. It felt so timeless, so secure." I sigh, reaching out a hand to brush back his curls. "Like father, like son, in more ways than they know. Or want to think about. God, he reminds me of Josh when we first met. I bet you've heard that story."

She smiles. "Yeah. That was a pretty gutsy move."

"I had no other acceptable options, so I just took the plunge, and, luckily, Josh caught me, so to speak. Don't ever tell him that, though. His ego's big enough. How did you two meet? Not at work, obviously."

She laughs. "Hardly. Mr. 'I burned my calc books in a bonfire fifteen minutes after I finished the final?' I don't think so. That's the first thing he said after I told him where I worked, and what I did. He goes 'Really? _I_ burned _my_ calc books.' I mean, who says things like that to a financial analyst right off the bat? It was a hell of a lot better than the glazed over look I usually got, though. And," she continues, "that was the first time I saw the dimples."

"Ah. Yes. They're irresistible. I know that from plenty of experience. And I'm sorry to say that I'm no more proof against them now than I was the day Josh and I met. So where did you meet?"

"In a bar. He had just gotten back from assignment somewhere, and I guess he needed a beer pretty badly, because he was still all scruffy, gorgeously scruffy, I might add. He caught my eye right away, because everyone else there was trying to make some sort of move, and looked it, you know? He didn't. And he didn't care. He was so confident; he was the...the sexiest person there, and he didn't even know it. That's why I love him. One of the reasons, anyway. He doesn't know how wonderful, how extraordinary, he is." She chuckles. "Wow. I don't usually babble this much."

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Banter is a way of life around here. And I'm glad you told me. It's good to hear."

* * *

It's almost time for the rehearsal to start. We're waiting for Liza still, hoping she'll get here in time. She's the maid of honor, so we can't really _have_ a rehearsal without her.

Meanwhile, I watch Norah embrace Toby enthusiastically. "Uncle Toby!" she screeches. She stopped using the honorary titles years ago on our other "Bartlet" friends, but Toby always has been, and always will be, her "Unca Toby," as she used to say. He pretends to abhor it, and she claims to do it just to see his discomfort, but they both love it, although Toby would rather have one of his speeches compared to a Dr. Seuss book first.

Now Sam and Toby are discussing Sandy's impending bachelor party. "Sam, please, don't let him get too drunk tonight."

"Hey, Donna, any godson of mine can hold his beer," he proclaims.

"I actually meant Josh, but while you're at it..."

"Who says we're stopping at beer?" Toby. "And anyway, Sam, I happen to remember this one time in Topeka, when you..."

"All right, all right. So tell me, what happened to the respect that, you know, I was gonna get once I took office?" he complains.

"Funny how that worked out, isn't it?"

* * *

I pace anxiously. I want my sister to be here. This is an important time for me, and I want her to be here.

Suddenly, she _is_ here, racing around the room, her long hair flying, bestowing hugs and kisses, and apologizing laughingly for her tardiness, explaining that her flight was late. She flings herself into Drew's lap (he's the best man, by the way), and accepts a spin in his wheelchair, and generally makes an exuberant spectacle of herself. Everybody smiles, because it's basically innocent, it's Liza being Liza, happy-go-lucky Liza; no one can stay annoyed with her for long. In fact, there's only one person I can see not smiling at her. Dave. He's looking at her with this expression of, well, I don't even know what. But I don't like it.

"Darrah," I whisper, poking her with my elbow. "Your brother is _staring_ at my sister."

"Oh?"

"Yes, 'oh.' Well?"

"Well what?"

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. I thought they might like one another."

"You 'thought' they might like one another, and you invited him to the wedding?"

She shoots me a withering glance. "Sandy," she says too pleasantly, "he happens to be my only living relative. And I am not going to banish him from my wedding simply because you want to go off and have some adolescent nutty! Got it? Good. Now, pay attention."

* * *

"It's the way you feel about that place under my collarbone, this one right...here," she says flirtatiously, tracing along the spot with her finger.

"Whoa! Mir, are you trying to give me a hear-"Her face blanches, and I realize my gaffe. "Whoops, guess I already covered that one. Look, I'm sorry, babe, I just don't realize why you care so much."

"I just like it, Adi, that's all. It's cute. Especially in the morning."

"I look like I'm six years old!"

"Which does have its occasional charms."

I roll my eyes, but she continues. "Donna and I were talking, and we agreed that it's one of your most attractive features."

"You and Donna were talking about my hair?"

She's ignoring me. "That, and your eyes, not to mention your-"

"Don't say it!" I groan.

"-your dimples," she finishes relentlessly.

"Okay, wait. I fail to see how my hair and this," I say, planting a kiss on the spot where her neck meets her collarbone, "are comparable. This has nerves, and pleasure sensors or whatever they are, and stuff like that."

"Are you telling me that you don't find _this,"_ she murmurs, massaging shampoo into my hair, "enjoyable?"

"No, no, as a matter of fact it's very enjoyable. Actually," I say, shifting so I can at least try to kiss her, "it's-"

Suddenly, there's a barrage of knocks against the bathroom door, followed by raucous laughter. "Hey, stop fooling around in there, you kids! We want a turn."

It's Norah and Phil. I can only imagine what state Dad must be in if he heard.

"Anyway," Miri continues earnestly as she steps out of the tub, "I would love you if you suddenly sprouted, I don't know, fish scales or something, so..."

"_Fish scales?"_

"You know what I mean, right?"

"Yeah, baby," I say softly. "I know what you mean."

* * *

I miss my mom.

I'm getting married today, and I miss my mom.

I actually don't remember her all that much, but that doesn't stop me from wishing she were here.

A knock sounds on the door, and I wipe away the few tears traveling down my cheeks, trying not to smudge my makeup. "Oh, hi, Donna."

"Darrah, sweetie, you look beautiful. Sandy'll be out of his mind when he sees you."

"He holding up okay?"

"A little fidgety, but I just tied his tie, so we're all set, provided his father doesn't do something to ruin my efforts in that area."

"I'm a, a little nervous."

"Of course you are, honey."

"It's not just that, Donna. The President of the United States is at my wedding!"

"You've met Sam several times before, Darrah."

"This is different."

"Oh, honey, it's really not. Sam loves Sandy. He loves you. You love each other. That's all that matters. Really. But that's not all, is it?"

"No," I sniffle. "I miss my Mama." The tears start flowing then in earnest, and Donna rocks me, shushing, murmuring into my hair.

"I can't imagine it, sweetie. My wedding was such a happy day. I'm so sorry, so sorry I can't do more. But I hope...I hope that if you ever need anything, you feel like you can come to me. You don't have to call me Mom, or anything like that, but...I love you, sweet girl. I love you for how happy you make my baby, and just for who you are."

"Donna," I say, "if you don't mind, I think I'd like to call you 'Mom.' It just might...take a little while, okay?"

"Whatever you want, sweetheart. And, look, before we destroy our insanely expensive makeup any more, I have something for you. This ring, well, Josh gave it to me on our first anniversary. Not everyone likes amber, but I always thought it was such a beautiful stone. So strong, and unassuming, yet lovely. And Josh and I were talking, and we decided it reminded us of you. So. This is for you."

"This is what you tell me, to make me stop crying?"

"Yeah, I guess it wasn't one of my brightest ideas. Josh is itching to talk to you before everything starts, so I better go let him in. Everything will be fine, sweetheart. I love you. Remember that."

* * *

"Look, Darrah, don't worry about it. Any of it. All you have to think about is Sandy. That's all. And, you know, getting your answers right, 'cause that would cause publicity problems like you wouldn't believe, so..."

She's laughing, and she gives me a kiss on the cheek. I redden a little, make noises about going to check on something outside, when she stops me. "Josh?"

"Yeah, hon?"

She's looking down again, but she seems more shy than nervous. "I was talking to Dave. I know it's last minute...there never seemed to be a good time, but...would you mind walking me down the aisle?"

I don't think I could be more flabbergasted than if she told me Republicans had stormed the White House in my absence. "Wouldn't Dave be-"

"I'd like to have both of you, if you don't mind, or anything."

I grin at her. "Well, yeah, sure! Do I look like a guy who minds?" With that, I turn to go out and announce to, you know, the _world_, my new role in the wedding.

"Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything."

My eyes moisten; there must be some sort of pollinating plant in here, or something. "No problem."

"No, really. For the ring, and everything. _Everything,"_ she repeats.

I walk up to her, and drop a kiss on the top of her head. "Honey," I say, "normally I would parade out something like 'welcome to the family,' or some kind of platitude like that, but this, today? It's just making it official. You've been part of the family from the first minute. Now, should we get this show on the road?"

I nod, he smiles, and Dave comes, and takes my other arm.

Family.


	14. The Luck of the Draw 14

Notes: All right, guys. Here it is. I was sorta burned out for a while on this, but here you go. I know it's not as thorough as some of you might like, but I'm leaving it the way it is. It just feels right to me this way. Let me know what you think! Music was what literally made me write this part, as well as the next, so I had to include some of it. The first song is "You Mean Everything to Me" by Shawn Mullins, the second "These Arms of Mine" by Otis Redding. Neither are mine. If you can somehow get a hold of them, I really suggest you listen to them, while you read, as the lyrics cannot do either of the songs full justice. It's all in the way they sing them. And how they do sing them…:)

Current Excuse for Feedback: Yesterday was my 20th birthday! So if you haven't dropped me a line in a while, or never have, you know, feel free. I'd love you for it. It's been a heavy few days. Mostly a good heavy, but heavy nonetheless.

* * *

"Um, before we do the traditional dancing, um, thing, I want to do something… for my wife. Darrah. Darrah, honey, I just…I love you. So much. And I want everyone to know just how much. I would have written something, but nothing came close, and there are much better writers in this room. So…I thought, I thought I would sing a song, for everyone to hear. Someday I'll write you your own, but for now, take this as a promise, okay? I love you. Always." 

Such a simple song. But so full of love. She watches Darrah embrace a bashful Sandy, press a kiss to the top of his ducked head. She sniffles as they begin to dance, and sighs wistfully.

I don't think I've ever seen anything more beautiful than the image of her standing against that pillar, in her long, frothy dress. When I say frothy, though, I mean it as a compliment. It's sleeveless, flaring out just a bit at the bottom, and the color is a bit lighter, a bit warmer, than that of a Granny Smith apple. If her hair were down, spilling down her back like last night instead of the elegant updo, she'd look just like Venus. Sappy, I know, but…

Last night. My God. My heart stopped. She came running in, her cheeks red from the cold, exuberant, laughing, but still graceful. Her hair was everywhere I looked, it seemed, a glinting, flashing gold always at the edge of my vision, my mind. Her eyes sparkled. Hell, _she_ sparkled, every bit of her. I'd never seen anyone more vibrant, more filled with life and light. I knew then. She's whom I'd been waiting for.

And now she's standing there, crying, because her brother is so happy, so complete, and she's not, maybe. I wish I could tell her that she's made me complete, and I've barely even talked to her, but we all know that would be crazy. So…

"It's almost sickeningly sweet, isn't it?"

She turns, startled, hastily wiping away tear tracks. "Yeah. I…I never knew it was possible for two people to be so connected, so content. But they're, they're just…just look at them, and how they look at one another."

It feels as though my heart hurts, looking at her looking. "Yeah," I say softly, and my emotion must come across in my voice, because she looks at me sharply. I make an effort to lighten the mood. "I'm Dave,…"

"Darrah's brother. I've heard a lot about you. She thinks the world of you."

"It's mutual."

* * *

His voice is thick and sweet as honey, with a Southern tang. Vaguely, I remember Darrah saying that their father was from North Carolina, and that they had spent every summer there. I don't know why, but listening to him speak, well, it reminds me of wood smoke, warm, rich and comforting. His eyes are tawny amber, and they're regarding me so intently I have to look away, turn away, but he catches my wrist. Momentarily I freeze, and remember the night I met Darrah, and that other hand that circled my wrist. But then he moves it so gently down into my hand that when he asks me to dance, I can't say no.

* * *

"You're not half bad." 

"Right back atcha, sugar."

We're dancing to "Sweet Caroline," and surprisingly, it works. He's an amazing dancer, for such a big man.

He stops a moment, to tip his head back and belt out the chorus enthusiastically. When he looks back at me, his eyes are twinkling, and he looks so boyish and carefree I just want to hug him. Instead…

"Did I mention that my middle name is Caroline?" I say.

"Well, you sure can dance, Sweet Caroline."

"You're better."

He smiles. "For that you can thank my mother. She loved to dance, and made sure I knew how to do it properly. Actually, we used to dance to this very song. Her name was Caroline, too. She used to say, when I complained, 'There's no surer way to a girl's heart, Davy, other than honesty, and singing.' As a result, I'm adept at all three."

"I'm sure you've put your skills to good use."

"Why, of course. A pass only last so long, and my 'skills' speed things up considerably." He winks mischievously, and I smile. I know how to do this, because this is banter, and I've grown up watching the champion. My mother.

* * *

I'm watching Liza dance with Dave. They look right together, and I'm glad. I was worried about her earlier, out there all alone, because, as Josh always says, she's our "ray of sunshine," and brooding isn't usual for her. 

Dave's a nice boy, and he's clearly smitten with my baby. And she with him, it looks like. I know chemistry when I see it, because I had, have, and will always have it with Josh, a Josh who, in fact, is currently nuzzling my neck. He murmurs an inappropriate suggestion into my ear, and I laugh, and push him away, and watch Liza again.

"Hungry Eyes" just started playing, causing Dave to assume an aggrieved stance and an almost comically pained expression. Liza's laughing, tugging on his arm, wheedling. With a theatrical sigh, he agrees to dance. I turn to Josh, satisfied. He's been watching, too, but his expression does not indicate satisfaction. His eyes are narrowed, and he's shifting into combat stance. I don't need to ask, but I will anyway: "Josh?"

"He's looking at her."

"Yes. Men do. She's an attractive woman, Josh."

He stiffens. "She's twenty."

"Yes. Precisely. Hence the term 'woman.'"

"He shouldn't be looking at her. He's too old for her," he says stubbornly, implacably.

"Josh, he's twenty-seven.""

"There's a big difference between twenty and twenty-seven, Donna. Trust me. _I _know."

"Do you, Josh? Do you really? Well, my my my, you big strong man, please, please tell me, as I am just the innocent little woman, anxious for your guidance." I bat my eyelashes at him. He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. "Josh, I'm gonna save you from yourself, okay? It's our son's wedding day, and I don't want to have to hurt you. So trust your daughter, and come and dance with me."

* * *

"Your husband's been looking at me funny, hon." 

"You've been dancing with his baby sister, David."

"Yeah, well, he's dancing with mine, and you don't see me freaking out, do you?"

I laugh, and nestle closer. When I look up, his eyes are soft. "Your husband. It doesn't seem possible, babygirl. One minute I'm walking you to kindergarten, with your pigtails and that little lunchbox with the butterflies, and the next I'm dancing at your wedding. You make sure he takes good care of you, all right? Or I'll come break his legs."

"We'll take care of each other. I'll be fine. I promise."

"If you ever need me, for anything, don't hesitate, okay?"

"I won't."

"Promise."

"I promise, Davy."

* * *

After my dance with Darrah, I go looking for her. She's on the patio again, shivering slightly in the chilly air. I shrug off the jacket of my uniform and put it over her shoulders, startling her once again. 

"You really have a way of sneaking up on a girl, you know that?"

"Yeah. Dance with me?"

"_Again?"_ But she takes my hand, and smiles.

* * *

We've been dancing together all night, and people are noticing. Have been noticing, actually, for a while now, but you know what? I honestly don't care. I feel right, here. His arms feel right to me. 

The song we're currently dancing to is "This Magic Moment," by The Drifters. It's a good song to dance to, relatively fast-paced, but still intimate. We've been having a good time, laughing as much as usual, and then I look up at him. Our eyes lock, and we stop dancing, and all of a sudden I know it's not just fun and games anymore. Not at all. We stand, just looking into each other's eyes, until the next song starts. He takes my hand, and then, with Otis Redding crooning through the speakers, we dance.

* * *

"I _told_ you something was going on!" 

He's tugging on my sleeve, whining, looking pointedly at Dave and Liza, who are staring at one another like they're the only two people in the world. "I see that, honey."

"Darrah!"

"Yes, Sandy, I see. I see two adults who appear to be falling in love with each other. One happens to be your sister, a sister whom you feel extremely protective of, whom you never want to see hurt again."

He looks down, biting his lip. "I know, honey. I know. But I know my brother. He won't hurt her, that way or any other, you understand? And if he ever does, I'll be the first in line to kick his butt, okay?"

"I still think all of this could have been avoided if I'd had my sunglasses. I look very menacing in my sunglasses."

I give up. Heaven help our daughters. Heaven help _me_.

Oh, well. I love him anyway.


	15. The Luck of the Draw 15

Notes: All right, guys. Here it is. I was sorta burned out for a while on this, but here you go. I know it's probably not what you expected, but blame The Drifters and Otis Redding. It practically wrote itself, really. Let me know what you think, please! The song is "I've been Loving You Too Long" by Otis Redding. If you can somehow get a hold of it, I really suggest you listen to it, while you read.

Current Excuse for Feedback: Saturday was my 20th birthday! So if you haven't dropped me a line in a while, or never have, you know, feel free. I'd love you for it. It's been a heavy few days. Mostly a good heavy, but heavy nonetheless.

Also: There are a few flashbacks in the beginning, in case you're a little confused.

* * *

She's directing a play. I've never felt so proud. 

Some of my friends told me I shouldn't have come, but I couldn't help myself. I love her. She's my girl, she always will be, and I love her, however much she hurt me. Seeing her tonight, looking as radiant as she did on the first day we met, I find it hard to believe it's been nearly thirteen years since Caro was born.

* * *

Liza had such a hard time with the pregnancy. She had horrible morning sickness, had to spend a good deal of the time in bed, was _losing_ weight as opposed to gaining it. I was frantic. I was thirty years old, recently promoted, and terrified over my impending fatherhood. I was sure something would happen to Liza or the baby, constantly on edge. Liza was calmer, reassuring, and it was _her _life in the balance! Once Donna came to stay, I breathed a little easier, and could actually, you know, function. The talks I had with Josh may have had something to do with it, as well. 

She was born six weeks early, a tiny little thing, but perfect. We were all pretty worried over her for a while, but she pulled through. Liza had a rougher time. She was so weak for so long afterwards. She was happy, though. She doted on Caro, and I doted on them both, and for a while, things were perfect. When she got pregnant again shortly before Caro's fourth birthday, we were concerned, naturally, but still ecstatic. We wanted more children. But then…

* * *

"Dave!" 

"Huhhh? Wha…?"

"DAVE!"

I woke up fully then, startled to reality by the note of panic in her voice. "What's wrong, sugar?"

"Oh, god, it hurts. Make it stop, please, Dave, please."

"The baby?" She nodded weakly, and I was overcome by sheer terror. "Okay. Hold on, baby, just hold on for me, okay? I just have to call someone to get Caro, all right? Stay there, don't move. I'll be right back. I love you. Everything'll be fine, okay?"

But I knew things weren't fine, as soon as I saw the doctor's tired, sorrowful face.

"She lost it," I stated, and the doctor nodded. "Can I see her?" Without waiting for an answer, I rushed into the room.

She looked so small, so fragile, so exhausted. That spirit that always shined in her eyes, even through that long, hard time with Caro, was completely gone, for the first time.

"Hi, sugar," I said softly.

"The baby, Dave. The baby." She ended on a wail, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. I was too choked up and tearful myself to answer, so I just wrapped her in a hug, and we cried together.

* * *

Things were bad for a long time after that; she was listless, apathetic. She put on a good front for Caro, but I knew she was pretending. I tried everything. I listened, I tried to spark her appetite with her favorite foods, I got her and Caro the kittens they had always wanted, I drove her to a therapist near the base every weekend. Finally, I called in reinforcements. Family. Donna and Josh, Sandy and Darrah and their son, Danny. Sandy has his own comic strip own column, and Darrah's a personal chef, so it wasn't too hard for them to relocate for a while. Norah and Phil flew in with Adi and Miri as often as they could. Donna fussed over her, Darrah cooked, and Josh generally just tried to annoy her, to get a rise out of her. She began to get intensely involved in campaigning for Derek Thomas, the Democratic nominee for president at the time. I was so happy to see her excited about something I brushed off the disparaging comments from some of my fellow officers. In retrospect, I wish I hadn't. 

We went to a party one weekend, and the liquor was flowing. We circulated, and then stopped for a while to speak with my best friend, Nick. That's when it happened.

They were talking in a group, and they were drunk. "Morgan's little wife's been campaigning for that Thomas prick. Took me nearly two hours to get Jenny to calm down after his wife came talking. God, why can't she just stay home and punch out kids like the rest of them?"

Liza turned so pale I thought she might faint. Then she turned and ran. I shoved the bastard against the wall and snarled at him. I would have punched him; I wanted to wipe that drunken smirk off his face with my fist. If it hadn't been for Nick's restraining hand on my shoulder, I would have.

She never really came back to me after that. She was so quiet, so distant. She became more serious after the babies, sure, but this was too quiet. Then, a week later, she left. Really left.

I'd gone into the kitchen to put on the coffee like always, and found her sitting there, surrounded by luggage.

"Liza?"

"I was going to leave, without saying anything, write a note, but then I knew I couldn't. I couldn't do that to you. Dave. I'm leaving."

I felt as though I'd been run over by a truck, and I couldn't find my voice. "Liza-"

"Don't say anything, Dave. It won't do any good. I have to do this. I need to figure myself out, and I can't do it here."

"We'll move…I'll get out of the service…just please, Liza…"

"Dave, no. This is what you were meant to do. You're so good at this. You're fair and just and everyone here respects you. They need you here. I'm not letting you give this up."

"It doesn't mean anything, not if you're not here, sugar."

She winced, closed her eyes as if in pain. "I can't be here, Dave. I can't. If I stay here, I'll…One of my friends from college called me a few weeks ago. He's directing a play, and he wants me to come help, maybe as Assistant Director. I want to do it. It's the first thing I've really, truly wanted for myself in a long time. So I'm going.

"Will you be back?" My voice broke, but I felt too bereft to care.

"I don't know."

"And Caro?" I shuddered at the thought of losing both of them.

She began to cry in earnest then. "She can stay with you, if that's all right. I'm not any good to her right now. Oh, God," she'd whispered, as though the full enormity of what she was doing had finally hit. Watching her, I could literally see her breaking. I stood up, went to her, and kissed her. On her forehead, face, eyelids.

"Liza. Please, don't do this. I'll help you, I promise. I…"

She drew herself up, and her resolve returned. "No, Dave. You can't fix this. Only I can, and I have to, now. It's not you, Dave. Please believe me. I'll…I'll call, to let you know where I am. Please, Dave, if you love me, don't follow. I need to do this on my own."

She put her sunglasses on then, and her hair caught the early morning sun. "Caro's up," she said. "I couldn't go without saying goodbye to her either. Please, let her see my family, Dave. Don't…don't hate them because of me, please. I'm sorry. I love you."

She was gone.

I sat at the table for a long time, and then I went upstairs to check on Caro. She'd fallen asleep again, her thumb in her mouth, her blond hair spread across the pillow. So like Liza. I cried then, watching my baby girl sleep peacefully that morning of all mornings, for the first time since my parents died.

* * *

I managed to wrangle my way into the premiere party. I'm standing against a pillar, half in shadow, just watching her. 

She changed from the suit she was wearing when she went up to accept the flowers to a short black dress, that emphasizes her tan and her blue eyes. Not to mention those fabulous legs of hers. She's too thin for my liking, though. Her hair's shorter, too, curling to halfway between her chin and her shoulders.

I stiffen momentarily, as a man places a hand on her back with an easy, intimate familiarity. Her exposed back; the dress plunges halfway down it, at least.

All of a sudden, for no apparent reason, she turns slightly, and sees me. Her eyes, expertly made up, widen; although I can tell she's shaken, to the untrained eye she doesn't show it, as she excuses herself and walks gracefully across the room towards me.

My heart is beating so hard, so fast, I'm wondering why no one else notices.

From the look in her eyes, maybe Liza does.

* * *

"Dave." 

"Hello, Liza."

God, his voice is still thick and soft as smoky honey, caressing my name like it always did. It still haunts me in my dreams at night, even when I seek refuge in someone else's arms. He looks as though he's drinking me in, and a lock of his dark hair falls in his eyes. I notice the slight wings of gray at his temples, and am struck by how somehow they make him even more attractive. Without thinking, I reach up to smooth it back, like I used to, and as I touch him, I feel a definite jolt of electricity. Judging from his face, he felt it too. Our eyes lock sharply, and I exhale slowly, trying to calm myself.

"You're the last person I ever expected to see here," I say inanely.

"I heard about this, and I wanted to see what you were up to. Good work, it seems. I'm proud of you, Liza-belle," he says softly.

Oh, god, why did he have to call me that? It was one of his pet names for me, the only one that made me feel even more cherished than "sugar." My eyes fill with tears, and I will myself not to lose it. I put a hand on his arm, looking up at him in silent acknowledgement.

He knows me too well. His eyes forgive me for all the things I can't, won't, say, understanding my need to check my emotions. "Ah, how's Caro?" I ask shakily.

He smiles, that wonderful, slow grin that always warmed my insides, and still does. "Beautiful. She's running track, riding. Drama, too. She's a fine actress. Gets more like her momma every day."

I bite my lip, look down. "I hope not."

He catches hold of my wrist. "Liza."

Then his eyes widen as he stares at my hand.

* * *

Oh my God. "You still wear it?" I ask, as I cradle her hand in both of mine. 

She looks down. "Yes."

I chuckle shakily. "I thought, by now…Well, let's just say I live in fear of the divorce papers coming."

She's startled. "Why?" she asks incredulously, her voice ragged with tears. "Why, in God's name, would you still…"

"Because, for better or for worse, I love you. I always will."

She looks like a deer in headlights, panicky. She swirls away and exits quickly, causing people in the room to stare quizzically after her. I wait a moment, debating, and then follow.

* * *

"Liza!" 

I stop, my heart breaking in slow motion, and turn to face him. "Oh, Dave, why did you have to come, why did you have to follow? It won't do any good. It's too late."

He regards me steadily. "Answer me this question: Why aren't you with someone?"

"Dave-"

"Why are you out here running away from me?" He exhales sharply. "God, Liza, you're even more beautiful than I remembered, you light up the goddamn room. I can't be the only one who's noticed. Why?"

"Because."

"Why?"

"God, will you stop asking that? Fine. They're not you, okay? That's why. God, eight years, and I still can't…I've tried and tried, but none of them ever made me forget."

"Liza." Something in his voice makes me go weak at the knees, and when I look up, he's moving towards me, and every fiber of my being tells me I should make him stop, somehow, but then he's kissing me, warm and deep, and it becomes everything.

* * *

Later, she's sound asleep, her head nestled on my chest. Otis Redding plays softly on the stereo, and as "I've Been Loving You Too Long" begins, I tighten my arms around her. 

The man knows what he's talking about. "Amen, Otis. Amen."

* * *

When I wake up, she's no longer next to me. Blinking hazily, I spot her in front of the mirror, removing the traces of last night's makeup. I pull on my boxers and pad over to stand behind her. I lift her hair, nuzzling her neck and trailing light kisses across her bare shoulder. "Morning, sugar." 

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and they're cloudy and grave. The happiness drains out of my body, replaced by fear.

"I'm sorry."

"For what, exactly?" I ask, and my voice sounds hollow, foreign.

She looks down. "Last night was… a mistake. I shouldn't have…let you. Encouraged. It was a mistake," she repeats.

I feel the anger simmering in my soul. "You're going to call that, the best night of my life in eight years, a mistake? Liza, what we had, it's still there. If you just gave us a chance…"

She's shaking her head, and her eyes glimmer with tears. "We can't just go back. Things are different now. I couldn't live on a base again, or that life again. I would suffocate. I love my work. I need it. And there's Caro to think about. I couldn't just waltz into her life again, as though I'd never left."

"You're her mother," I say stubbornly. "She's growing up. She needs you. With her, not just in those damn letters, packages you send."

"It's the best I can do right now."

"Oh, fuck that, Liza! You're afraid. It's not that you can't; you _won't!_ I love you, God knows why but I do, and you have a beautiful daughter who loves you. Why…"

"That's not enough."

"Well, if it isn't," I sneer, "then I don't know what is, cause in my experience life can't get much better than that, sugar."

For the first time, "sugar" comes out sounding like a slur, and I storm angrily around the room, yanking on my clothes. "I have a plane to catch. See you in another eight years."

I don't catch my breath until I've slammed the door and run down the stairs, and then it hits me. I lean up against the wall and wrap my arms around me. I've finally, truly lost her.

* * *

I'm late. 

Figures.

You saw that coming, right? I wish I had. I wish I'd been thinking at all, actually. But isn't that the way of things? Your guy walks in the room and all capacity for rational behavior vanishes. He's still my guy. But I don't know what I want to do.

I can't go back to that life, I just can't. I don't mean just the whole army…_thing_, although that has something to do with it.

I stop the car, take in the spacious, sunny house, the toys strewn over the yard, and smile ironically. Fifteen years ago, if you had asked our friends which one of the Lyman sisters would end up with the picture-perfect life, I would have won, hands down. But that was before life had me firmly in its clutches.

I start towards the house, and suddenly Norah's there, staring. "Liza? Oh, my god! Liza, sweetie! It's been so long!" She's running down the stairs, and sweeping me up in a giant hug. I don't think I've ever been more glad to see my big sister. "You look fabulous! Directing must agree with you!"

"You look great, too."

"Oh, stop. I'm old. I have crow's feet."

"I will not have you talking about my wife in such a manner," Phil says mock-sternly, as he appears on the porch. "Nah. Who do you think you're kidding, gorgeous? You'll never be old, Roo my love."

"You just want to get lucky."

"Is it working?"

"You bet your ass."

They're teasing, but the love between them is so palpable, I feel a sudden pain in my chest, and as I accept Phil's embrace, tears once again spring to my eyes.

"What's wrong, Tinkerbell?" Phil asks, concerned. Norah gives me a deep, searching look, and I cry harder.

"I'm pregnant," I sob. Norah puts her arms around me, and we walk into the house.

* * *

"Whose is it?" 

"It's Dave's."

"I'm sorry?" She's shocked, and I don't blame her. "When did you see him?"

"He came to the opening a few months ago. I looked up, and…and he was just _there_, Norah, like always. Then he said…and then we were outside, and he kissed me, and I know I shouldn't have, but…"

"Wait," Norah says. "What did he say?"

"What?"

"What did he say?"

"He said…he said he still loved me."

"And what did you say?"

"I ran out, and he followed, and we ended up at my place…and the next morning I told him it was all a mistake."

"_What?"_

"God, Norah, you're all acting like we can just pick up where we left off. We can't. Sometimes it's not that simple."

"Sometimes it is." She sighs. "God, Liza, do you know how that man looked at you when you weren't watching? All I can say is, I hope Phil looks at me that way."

"Love isn't the issue, Norah!" I spit out vehemently. "It never was, and it never will be!"

"Then what is it?" she asks softly.

"I…I felt like I was losing myself, like I was two-dimensional, even before I lost the baby. Like I was just "the wife." And you have to understand, he never treated me like that, never treated me as if I didn't matter, or had nothing important to say for myself. I just felt it. On some level, though, I wish he had treated me as 'the wife.' Not as a trophy wife," I explain, in response to her raised eyebrows, "but as an equal partner. He kept trying to shield me from things. I was his 'baby.' Okay, so on some level I enjoyed it, that he wanted to protect me, but it got old. The fight we had the morning he left after the…well, it was the first one we'd had where he'd left angry, without apologizing at all."

"Have you told him about the baby?"

"No."

"Honey, you need to tell him. It's his baby, too. When are you due, anyway?"

"I'm not sure, really. I haven't actually been to the doctor."

"Are you _crazy_? I mean, have you completely lost your mind?" She's shouting with full force; my sister unleashing the full power of her anger is a frightening sight. "You know how much trouble you had with Caro! Are you trying to kill yourself? Jesus, Liza, do you know how drained Mom was, how worried? And Dad! Dad didn't sleep; he practically wore a hole in our rug with his pacing. You want to screw around with your personal life, that's fine. I don't like it, but…fine. Your health is another story. I'm your big sister, and I say so, so there, dammit! Come on," she says abruptly, catching my hand. "Mom and Dad are visiting Sandy and Darrah in the city. We're going. If you won't listen to me, you'll listen to them."

* * *

I can't believe I'm standing here. Norah dragged me, as she promised, or rather threatened, and now I'm standing outside Darrah and Sandy's loft, and I'm nervous. 

Okay, so I haven't totally isolated from my family, but I certainly haven't gone out of my way to see them, either. With everything else, I couldn't deal with the disappointment they must have felt, and then I never worked up the nerve.

The door opens, interrupting my thoughts. "Hi, Daddy."

* * *

Seeing her standing there, well, it's a jolt. I haven't seen her in eight years, since she went out to California again. There have been strained phone calls, with more unsaid than said. Letters. Emails. But no visits. 

I've taken to getting the San Francisco Chronicle, for reviews of her work. I, unlike others, am not angry at her, and never have been. Hurt and confused, yes, but not angry. I wish she would have come to me, talked, but I'm not one to judge on making a mess of things, especially where emotions are concerned.

Right now I'm just happy to see her, standing in front of me. With a pang, I realize how unsure she is, how much more guarded. Not like my baby girl at all. She used to be so open, so full of energy. She had this light inside her, this magnetism. You couldn't look at her without smiling. Donna could handle punishing her well enough when she was small, but me? Never.

So looking at her now, arms crossed, hunched, uncertain, breaks my heart, and I step forward, and wrap my arms around her.

* * *

After Dad hugged me, I thought things might be okay, but now I remember why I didn't want to do this. They're all looking at me. All of them. Dad, smiling but hurt, I can see that. Sandy, his eyes cloudy, biting his lip. Mom, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing with a barely restrained indignation. And Darrah. 

God, she must absolutely hate me. She was one of my dearest friends once, but now her face is unreadable, and after measuring me with her eyes for a long minute, she finally speaks, cool and remote. "To what do we owe the honor of this visit, Liza?"

"I…" Suddenly, I panic. It's too much, too much. "Look, I shouldn't have come. I know you hate me. I'm sorry. I'll just go. I'm sorry."

She laughs bitterly. "Hate you? Liza, that would be too easy. I don't even know how I feel about you anymore, but I sure as hell know I can't pare it down to just one word. I find what you did to my brother utterly cruel and reprehensible. I want to cry every time I think about how much love he still feels for you, after all this time, all this hurt. I ache for Caro when she calls me with questions, things she should be hearing from you, when your letters aren't enough. She could phone you, I know, but she's too afraid. Too afraid of being hurt, rejected. Again. And she's so fearless in everything else. And my heart breaks every time I have to listen to my husband blame himself for this mess, because even though I've tried to convince him otherwise, he still persists in feeling responsible. So no, Liza, I don't hate you. I think too little of you for that."

Through that whole speech she's spoken quietly, shaking Sandy's hand off her arm. Looking at them all, I can see that to some extent, they agree with her. I start to hear a buzzing in my ears, and the room seems to be spinning somewhat. Darrah's talking again. I shake my head to try and clear it.

"You must know all that though, you're not dumb. So I ask you: what the hell made you think you could just knock on my door after all this? Huh? What possible excuse could you have?"

I'm suddenly feeling really dizzy, but I still manage to choke out an answer. "I'm…I'm having your brother's baby." The buzzing gets louder, and then everything fades to blackness.

* * *

Once she collapses, I feel as though I can finally move again. During Darrah's tirade, I felt frozen. I wanted to protect my sister, seeing how vulnerable she looked, but I couldn't. Darrah's needed to say what she said for a long time, and even though it probably wasn't the best way, it was inevitable. And I couldn't move. 

And then she spoke, and fainted. I rush over to her, pick her up, shout for a washcloth, a doctor, anything, I don't know what. Darrah's standing there, her hand over her mouth, as the rest rush around, watching as I lay my sister gently on the couch. All of a sudden Liza just seems so small. So small.

Damn whoever decided life had to be so hard.

* * *

Once again, I cannot believe I'm doing this. 

I'm in North Carolina, outside of Dave's house. He doesn't live in our little house anymore. This is a big place, with a wraparound porch, close to the water.

I cannot believe I'm doing this. I can't believe any of it.

Twins. Can you believe it?

They dragged me to Darrah's OB/GYN, and it's twins. Due in May. Everyone got so worried; I had a rough enough time with one. But something tells me these two will make it, that they're here for a reason, whatever it might be. So I'm going to keep them, whatever Dave says, whatever happens.

They told me I had to tell him, and in person. I agreed. But that doesn't mean I want to do it.

* * *

My chest constricts as I watch her get out of her car. I open the screen door, hearing every nuance of the creak, and stand on the front porch, in the chilly fall air. Slowly, I walk down the steps. She's beautiful. Damn it, why is she always so beautiful? She's wearing worn jeans and a sweater the color of a perfect sky, just the shade of her eyes. One side slips down, revealing a bit of a tanned shoulder. The paisley scarf wrapped around her neck, of a blue only slightly lighter than the sweater, just draws attention to the shoulder, that perfect shoulder, the one I kissed that last morning. 

I wonder, bleakly, whether I'm about to get my heart broken again.

* * *

"Liza." 

His voice is neutral, devoid of its usual warmth. I steel myself, and look into his face, his eyes. "Dave."

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just passing," I joke feebly. He doesn't seem to find it funny. Neither do I. I look down, running a hand through my hair. "I came to see you."

"Oh. Why?"

I look up, startled by the bluntness of his question. And then I see her.

She's jogging up the road. Despite the cold, she's wearing dark green shorts with a stripe down the side and a light green tank top, a sweatshirt tied around her waist. She's got her father's athletic build, with a lanky, slender grace I remember from my own teenage years. Her hair's a bright gold, wavy, pulled back in a simple ponytail.

I don't know how I'm not crying, because my soul is shattering.

All of a sudden she stops short, and looks at me, with an intense gaze. She got her father's eyes, two deep pools of dark golden amber.

Dave glances at me, then walks over to her, says something softly. Reluctantly, she turns and goes up to the house, but before she enters, she turns, and looks at me again. After a moment, Dave clears his throat.

"Well."

"She's beautiful," I say softly. "You were right, Dave. She's beautiful."

"Look who she came from." I look at him, holding his gaze with mine, and then, all of a sudden, he's closed off again.

* * *

Damn it to hell! I am not doing this again! I can't. I won't allow it. More importantly, I will absolutely not allow the same thing to happen to my daughter. I am not having her hurt again. Ever. 

My anger makes me suddenly impatient, brusque. "What do you want, Liza?"

She darts a quick glance up at me, and then she speaks. "I'm having a baby. Two, actually."

I'm stunned. For a moment I can't seem to think, much less move, or speak. Then, all that's in my head is that someone's touched her, had her, who's not me, and it makes my blood boil. I don't even stop to consider…

"Who's the lucky man?" I ask bitterly.

She takes a deep breath. "You," she says simply.

What? "And just why should I believe you?" I know it's cruel, but it just came out.

She looks at me steadily, unflinchingly. "Because you know me, Dave. Whatever else I've done, I've never lied to you, and I never will. When I tell you this, it's the truth. You were there that night. I haven't been with anyone else since, because you were right. We still have it. I don't know what that means, or what we can do about it, or if we should do anything at all, but I wanted you to know. I'm having these babies, and they're yours, and I just wanted you to know. That's all."

Well.


	16. The Luck of the Draw 16

Disclaimer: Original West Wingers and all show-associated plot devices not mine. To TPTB: these are great toys, play nicer.

A/N: After a loooooooooong hiatus, here's the final chapter. I had the mother of all blocks on it. Thanks to those who asked about it, and those who took the time to review originally. I know, I know, not all of the pairings made it in here really, and sorry bout that, but I didn't want to force them. Anyone interested in an epilogue of sorts, with stuff about the kids? I'm gonna limit myself to one, I think, if there are enough people interested, and I'll try my best to work everyone in. There comes a point where things won't/shouldn't go any further, though, I think.

Anyway, thanks for everything, guys, y'all have been great, and let me know what you think!

* * *

"You sure you don't wanna come with me?" 

I look at my wife, the silvery hair, the laugh crinkles around her clear blue eyes, and reflect that she's still the most dazzling, the most amazing woman on earth.

She sighs. "Josh, I can't. I've got a deadline on the book coming up."

I'm going to North Carolina to stay with Liza, Dave and Caro. Liza moved out there last month, so she and Dave could try and work some things out, and to quiet Dave's misgivings about her being alone in California. I spoke to her last week, and it seems to me as though they could use a neutral presence, for Caro's sake if nothing else.

Besides, I could tell from her voice. My baby needs me. So I'm going. Screw distance, screw leaving them be. Life is short, and they're my family. That's all that matters.

I look at her, take her hands in mine. "Why don't you tell me the real reason?" I ask softly.

"Josh, I just… I can't. I can't right now. I'm still so…I can't deal with it now. Once the babies are born… Please, Josh. Please don't ask me now."

I rest my chin on the top of her head. "All right, baby. I know. But it won't wait forever."

* * *

"Well, well, well. Who made you swallow a watermelon seed? Wait…don't answer that." 

"Honestly, Daddy."

"C'mere." He wraps me in a surprisingly tight hug. God, it's hard to believe he's in his eighties. His hair's slate gray, and his stride a little slower, but his eyes still laugh as easily as ever. I'm glad he's here.

"It's good to see you, Daddy."

He puts his arm around me and squeezes. "You too, kitten. So how are things? How are you feeling?" he asks anxiously.

"Fine. Rested. Extremely rested," I elaborate dryly.

"Well, honey, you know you should…"

Dave comes clattering out of the house, barreling across the porch and down the stairs. "Liza! What are you doing? I told you I would deal with the cab. You're supposed to be resting."

"David, you're hovering. I have rest coming out of my ears. I wanted to do something for once."

"Liza,…"

"I know, I know. I'm going."

"Thank you."

* * *

I watch her go, then turn to see Josh studying me intently. "So how was your flight?" 

"You still love her."

"You cut to the chase, don't you, Josh?"

"Hey, I'm a politician."

"Hence my surprise."

He looks affronted, then laughs. "I knew I always liked you, Dave."

"Could have fooled me, those first few years, anyway. I always felt as though I was about to run the gauntlet."

"A father's gotta do what a father's gotta do. But then you'd know that."

"Yes."

"Which brings us, okay it doesn't really, but you didn't answer the first time, to my original question: you love her still, don't you?"

"Well, considering she's having my children…"

"I meant **in** love. Really, truly, honestly still in love with her, even though you're so angry with her."

"Yes."

"I'm glad."

"Well, I'm glad someone knows exactly how they feel about it. **I** can't pin anything down for ten minutes at a stretch, really, except that I love her, somehow."

"You'll figure it out. Trust me."

"Yeah."

Caro picks that moment to burst out of the house. "Granddad!" she squeals.

"There's my Georgia peach!"

They play this game every time. It's tradition. "This is North Carolina, silly," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, really? Well, what does it matter…they're all Republican down here anyway."

"Not me."

"That's my girl."

* * *

"But Daddy, Momma said I could go!" 

"Well, she didn't know I had already said no. You know better than that, Caroline."

The look on her face is mutinous. "You don't want me to do anything! It's not fair! No wonder Momma left!"

I'm stunned. Liza enters from the living room, to which she had withdrawn when the argument began. "Caroline," she says sharply, "don't say things like that! When you've calmed down, you and I can have a discussion about why I left, but not now. Now you're going to apologize to your father and go up to your room."

"I won't apologize, I won't! You're all hypocrites! One day I will leave, and you'll be sorry!" She's sobbing now, and she runs up the stairs, slamming her door shut.

"Well," I say grimly, "I expected that to happen someday, just not quite so soon." I rub my hand over my eyes tiredly.

"She didn't know what she was talking about, Dave. She just wanted to hit you where it hurt most. She's probably sick over it already. She didn't mean it. I'll talk to her."

"No. I will. And I'll thank you not to make any decisions about Caro without consulting me first!"

"Dave, honestly, it was just a trip to the mall. All her work is done. No boys."

"And how do you know that?"

"She told me."

"And you believe her?"

She looks at me steadily. "Yes. You raised her, and I know you raised her to be truthful. So I trust her until she gives me reason to do otherwise. And although I may not have been around for the last ten years, I was with her every day for her first four, more than you were. Some things about her I do know."

"Oh, so this is a contest now? Well, I think any judge would give me the win, here. Where do you get off, being self-righteous?"

"Yes. Yes, I know," she says tiredly.

"Well, know this: I make the decisions around here when it comes to Caro. You lost any say when you walked out that door ten years ago."

"So you expect me to stay shut up when you're being totally unreasonable? I won't do that. David, _that_ is why I left. One of the reasons, anyway. The base was crawling with idiots with that mentality. I couldn't stand it. I was suffocating. Losing the baby, well, that just made me take a long, hard, overdue look at my life. I was going to stay, wait things out, talk to you, but then those bastards at that party said those things, and I had to get out. I couldn't stand one more second. I didn't want either of us to end up like them. Until today I didn't think you really could. What Caro said, she said in anger, and she was wrong, and you should tell her so. But her words had an element to truth to them. Don't make her pay for my mistakes, for ours. They're not hers."

She's trembling, and her hands are clenched together. Her knuckles are white. Any other time I'd be worried about upsetting her, but I'm too angry. I brush past her and stalk out to the car.

* * *

Well, at least they've got things out in the open now. Someday we'll all thank Caro for that. I'm betting she heard most of it, so I go and knock on her door. "Sweetie, it's Grandpa. Can I come in?" 

I take a muffled sob to be as good an assent as any, so I go in. Her face is crushed in a pillow, and when she looks up her face is swollen and tearstained. "Oh, sweetheart." I open my arms. "Come here. It's alright, baby. It'll be alright."

"I made them fight."

"It wasn't your fault, honey."

"Why didn't I just stay quiet? It wasn't that big of a deal. Why did I have to say those things?"

"You were angry. We don't always say the smartest things when we're angry. I should know. Trust me."

She looks up at me plaintively. "Is she going to leave again?"

Oh, God. What can I say to that? "I don't know, sweetie. I don't think so. And even if she did, it wouldn't be like before, I promise you. I'd see to that. But I wouldn't need to. I don't think she could if she tried. She loves you, sweetheart. She always has. That might not seem like much right now, but for what it's worth, it's true."

* * *

I come home to find Liza stretched out on the couch, asleep. I spend some time just looking at her. She honestly doesn't look a bit older than when she was having Caro. She'd call me delusional if I ever said such a thing, but it's true. But then I suppose I've always had a blind spot when it comes to Liza. She stirs, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. It's not very easy on this couch. So I pick her up, and carry her to my room. She's not all that heavy, even with the twins, which is another thing to worry about, but tomorrow. 

And yes, I know you caught the thing about putting her in my room, in my bed. She's been staying in one of the guestrooms. We've been trying to figure ourselves out, and with Caro getting used to the situation…But she needs her rest, and my bed, our bed, is bigger. I settle her under the covers, and she snuggles in, squashing a pillow under her arm just as she used to do years ago. I brush her hair back from her forehead and drop a kiss on it. Her eyes drift slowly open. "Davy?"

No one's called me that in years. She wouldn't either, if she wasn't half-asleep. Thank goodness for small mercies. "It's late. Sleep, baby."

"'Kay."

I go to the doorway, and find Josh watching me. We stare at each other for a long moment, and then he nods, giving me a ghost of a smile. "I think Caro might still be up. She's had a rough night."

"Thanks, Josh."

"Yeah. Be careful, though, will ya? We don't often get second chances."

"I will."

* * *

"Momma?" 

"Hey, Bug. What's up?"

I startle at the use of the long-forgotten nickname. "I was at the library after school. Mrs. Murphy said to say hello. To drop by, if you want."

She smiles, but her eyes are guarded. I'm not the only one who noticed the slip. "Thanks."

"Sure." I turn to go, then stop. "Um, you need anything? A drink or something?"

"Thanks, honey, no. I'm fine."

"Ok. Well, just, you know, call or whatever."

She beams. "I will."

"Um, Momma?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"I, um, I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to make you and Daddy fight."

"Oh, Bug. Come here." She pats the bed next to her, and I clamber up, settle cautiously back into her arms. "You didn't make us fight. And it wasn't fighting, really. It was more of a…of an airing of feelings. I'm sorry it upset you. I'm sorry about everything, baby. I messed it up. I messed it all up, and fixing it's going to make it even messier for a while. But try not to worry too much, all right? I love your dad, and I love you, and nothing will ever change that, whatever happens."

I ponder this for a while. She said she was sorry. She sounded uncertain. In my experience, those things don't happen to grownups. But somehow, coming from her, they make me feel more secure.

With that, and the constancy of her hand stoking my hair, I fall asleep.

* * *

I'm sitting in the den, hand on my belly, brooding, when Dave comes in. "Hey there, sweet thing. What're you up to?" 

His tone is light and cheerful; both that and the pet name is a rare phenomenon these days, but it does nothing to lift my spirits. "Nothing. Just thinking."

He tilts my chin up gently, sees the tears swimming in my eyes. Understands. Knows. "Well, that's no good," he admonishes gently.

"What else is there to do at 11:36 on a Thursday night?"

"There's gotta be something," he says. Then a mischievous smile gleams, and he winks. "Dance with me."

"Excuse me?"

"Dance with me."

"I'm nearly seven months pregnant with twins."

"So we'll go easy."

" 'We'll go easy?' This, from Mr. 'I'll have an aneurysm if Liza stands up for more than ten minutes?' "

"Yeah." His face is so eager. Damn. "Come on."

"Oh, all right."

"Excellent!" He grins, and turns to fiddle with the CD player. "Don't even think about peeking." I pout, and he smiles.

The music comes on, and I groan. "You have _got_ to be kidding me." It's "Jump," by the Pointer Sisters. He's already shimmying to the beat, snapping his fingers, laughing at me.

"You know you love this song. Everybody loves this song."

"Now all I can think of when I hear this is Hugh Grant breaking out the moves at 10 Downing Street."

"Oh, I can do better than that, sister."

"Yeah?" I angle my head, put a hand on my hip. "Prove it."

And he does. Extremely aptly. _Extremely. _And I've gotta say, it's pretty damn hot. He reaches his hands out, and I grab them, start to sway. "David, when did you ever…I mean, you were good, but, well…"

"I'm in a uniform eight hours a day, at least; I've gotta unwind somehow, don't I? What else do you think I have to do around here?" I falter, but he's so caught up in the moment he doesn't notice. His grin is so infectious that suddenly the years and the hurt fade, and I'm twenty-two again, dancing away my cares with my man.

Eventually, inevitably, the song ends. Dave's eyes sparkle, and his cheeks are flushed. The love swells in my chest so hard and fast it's painful. "Thank you, Dave," I say softly. He nods, slightly, and a small smile touches his lips. He reaches out a hand and tucks my hair behind my ear. Impulsively, I catch hold of it, raise it to my lips, and press a kiss on it, all the while holding his gaze with mine. His eyes are soft as I release his hand, and I can feel them following me as I leave the room.

* * *

"Grandpa! Grandpa, wake up!" 

I wake with a start, look up into Caro's face. A quick pang of fear twists my heart. "What is it, sweetie? Your mom?"

She looks momentarily contrite. "No. Well, in a way, but not like that. Come on, Grandpa!" She drags me out of the room towards the stairs, puts a finger to her lips. We creep down, and suddenly Liza and Dave come into view. They're dancing. Liza looks a bit hesitant, a bit awkward, but Dave…God, I can count the times I've seen him smile like that on one hand. I have to smile too, watching him, watching them, and Liza can't hold out much longer either. She relaxes, slowly, loses herself in the moment, the music.

I look over at Caro. She's totally engrossed in watching. Her eyes shine with happiness. She's such a good girl…she deserves more than these stolen snatches of time, I think sadly. I place a hand on the top of her head, smile, and climb the stairs back to my room. At the top, I turn. She's still watching.

* * *

Josh called last night. Told me about the dancing, about Caro watching, and at last I felt a spark of hope. They fell in love dancing. Maybe… 

For the first time since Josh broached the idea of going to stay with them, I wished I were there. Maybe I should have gone, I don't know. It just, it hurts too much, seeing them now, knowing what they were.

I got out the photo albums, leafed through the pages, the memories. God, they were beautiful. She was so full of light, and affection; Dave worshipped her, and she adored him. She drew him out of his shell, and he was her anchor. They were a sight to see, those first few years. So…_right. _

And then Caro came. I don't know when I've seen a child be more loved. Dave took such tender care of both of them, treasured them. And Liza was a wonderful mother. She encouraged Caro to explore, but never pushed her. Liza was always breezing about with Caro on one hip, her capacious bag on the other, sunglasses holding back her hair. Always laughing.

I stop when I come to a particular picture. It's the three of them, walking along the beach. Caro is perched on Dave's shoulders, and he's hugging Liza to his side with his free arm. Her head is on his shoulder, his lips are pressed to her hair. Such love, such contentment. And she left.

Of all the things I tried to teach my daughters, well, all of my children, the most important was never to run away…from pain, from mistakes. I've run from too many things in my life, some good, some bad. My family, Josh, both literally and figuratively, and… I never wanted my children to go through that kind of pain, that regret. So I can't watch Liza go through that, can't watch her try and forge a relationship with the beautiful girl she abandoned, the husband she left. Maybe it's selfish, maybe I'm a bad mother, but…I _can't. _I just can't.

* * *

I enter the house at a dead run, past a trembling Caro and a frantic Josh. "Did you call an ambulance?" I ask curtly. He nods. "Okay," I exhale, and then I walk quickly into the bedroom. 

"Dave?" It's a whimper, and all I can do is reach down and hold her hand; the lump in my throat's too big for anything else. "They're too early." She grimaces in pain, and then continues. "Dave, what if, what if…" Tears trickle down her face, and she starts shaking. Her eyes go wide and glassy with shock, and I fight the panic that's rising in me.

"Liza. Liza, they'll be fine. I promise. Nothing bad's gonna happen. I won't let it. I won't let it." I can't let it.

* * *

It's a placental abruption. They're doing a C-section, and we haven't heard anything yet. Dave is pacing like a caged lion, and he's run his hands through his hair so many times I'm honestly surprised he has any left. As soon as we hear the door swing open, Dave pounces on the doctor. For the moment, all I can notice is the amount of blood staining her scrubs. 

"My wife? The babies?" Dave asks anxiously.

"Your wife lost a lot of blood, but we gave her a transfusion, and she's stable now. As for the babies, the first is doing well. He's small, five pounds, but doing fine. He's being taken up to NICU right now. The second boy, well, he's considerably smaller, three pounds and change. He wasn't breathing, and he's still having considerable difficulty; there may be other complications."

"Is he-will he…be all right?"

"He's up in the NICU as well; they're doing everything they can."

"May I see my wife?"

"Of course, go ahead." He takes off, and before she can leave, I grab her hand.

"Thank you, Doctor."

She smiles softly. "You're welcome."

* * *

It's hours before I'm able, for various reasons, to see my youngest grandson. He's absolutely tiny; the incubator and all of the tubes make him seem even smaller. But he's here. 

"Hey, buddy. Hey there. I'm Grandpa. We're gonna be good friends, you and I, so we might as well start now, huh?" His eyes open, revealing their bright blue, and he waves a tiny hand. "Sound like a good idea to you too? Good deal."

I move a chair close to the incubator and sit down. "I'm going to tell you something, Gabriel Joshua. Your mommy picked out that name, you know. It's a good, strong, wise name, the name of a fighter. You've got Lyman blood in you, little guy, and Lymans are fighters. Your great-great grandpa, your great-grandpa, your grandpa, that's me, and your mommy and your aunts and uncles. Your daddy's no slouch, either; someday I'll tell you about all of them. So you've got to fight, buddy; we need you. I can already tell your brother Brady is going to be a handful; you'll have to keep him in line. Your sister, she's so excited; she'll spoil you rotten. And your mommy and daddy need you. They need you so badly. You're their chance. If…if anything happened…I don't know. I just don't know what that might do… So. This is between you and me, buddy. You make it, and I'll be there. For anything you need, okay? Ever. We've all got so much love to give you…let us have that chance, please. So you hang in there, little Chance, all right? You just hang in there."

"Josh."

I turn, and see my wife. My eyes moisten. "_Donna." _I cross to her, hold her in my arms, so tight. "Thank God," I murmur. "I needed you."

"You too, baby." She pauses, takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Josh."

"What for?"

"For not being here, with you."

"God, no. Donna. No. Please don't. I know. I never thought…It's absolutely fine, honey. So…so, um… how did you get here, anyway?"

Against my chest, she laughs, sniffles. "Sandy and Darrah. They picked me up on their way down."

"Darrah's here?"

"Yeah."

"What about the kids?"

"Adi and Miri have them."

"That would make…what, nine kids in their house? Bless them."

"After six, what difference does a few more make?"

"True."

Donna loosens her hold, glances toward the incubator, speaks without looking away. "Is this him? The newest addition?"

"Yeah." I swallow past the lump in my throat. "He…Gabriel Joshua. That's his name."

"Hello, Gabriel Joshua." She looks up at me, her eyes bright with tears. "He's so tiny, Josh. And he…he looks, just like her. Just like she did. Remember?"

I pull her close once more, smile. "Of course I remember. I may choose to forget our proper anniversary, but that, I do remember. I'll always remember, Donna."

We just hold one another for a moment, and then she looks at our grandson again. "Gabriel Joshua, huh? That's a good name…I like that name."

"Yeah. Except, I changed it."

She just looks at me. "You changed it."

I smirk. "Yes."

"Ah. And what, may I ask, do Liza and Dave have to say about this?"

"They don't know yet."

"Aha. Well."

She's so distracted by, well, everything, that her bullshit radar isn't as finely honed as usual. I grin, and kiss the tip of her nose. "Donna, relax. It's a nickname."

"Oh." She scowls, and pokes me in the ribs. "So, what is it, then?"

"Chance," I say softly. "His name is Chance."

She wraps her arms around me, buries her head in my shoulder. "Sometimes, Joshua, you just…you astound me."

"You always astound me, Donnatella. Every single day. And I…I love you, do you know that?"

"Yes, Joshua, I do know that."

I smile. "All right, then."

We watch our grandson.

* * *

I stick my head in the door. She's hunched up into a ball, as hunched as she can be while recovering from surgery, anyway, and tears drip down her face. I used to find her like this after she lost the baby. It always made me feel so helpless. "Liza?" 

She raises her tearstained face, and upon seeing me breaks into fresh sobs. _"Darrah._"

My heart breaks, and I cross the room to hug her. "Hey, sweetie. Shhhh, honey. Shhhhh." I rock her slowly, and she grabs onto me, holds hard.

Eventually, after a long while, she speaks, without looking at me. "I suppose this is my punishment."

"What?"

"For leaving. For everything. I suppose I got off too easy. So now I have to sit here and watch my baby fight. Show me how useless I am, even when I try."

"No…"

"And worst of all, to make you all go through it all again! First with Caro, and then with… _him…_and now again.

"And Dave! He was the one who had to keep it together then, take care of everything…I can't even give him healthy children…God. No wonder you all despise me."

I take her by the shoulders, look deep into her eyes. "We don't despise you, Liza. Truly, we don't. Maybe we were angry, and confused, but there's not one of us who wouldn't have walked through fire for you if you had asked. Especially Dave. Look, I can guess things are rough with him right now, but you've got to ride it out, trust that you can, okay? He'll come around. He loves you too much not to."

"Your brother's a goddamn saint, you know that, right?"

"I don't know whether you can actually be a 'goddamned saint.' Isn't that kind of an oxymoron, or something?" I grin.

She chuckles in spite of herself, and wipes her eyes on the sheet. "God, I've missed you, Darrah."

"You too, buddy." I watch her as she takes deep shuddering breaths, reflecting that once upon a time, out situations would have been reversed. She's shuttered, and unsure, and that makes me want to kick myself. I probably helped that, justified or not, and it's gone on long enough. I promise myself that whatever else I do, I'm gonna try my damndest to get some of that spark back for her, help her do that for herself.

"Hello, Liza-baby."

I look up, and see Donna standing in the doorway, with a small smile on her lips and tears in her eyes.

"Mama. Oh, Mama."

Donna crosses the room and wraps her arms around Liza, rocking her once more. I leave the room to give them a moment, only to come upon my brother leaning against the wall outside. "Dave?"

His voice is raw, hoarse. "Does she really think that? That it's her fault, now, and all those years ago, Darrah? How-" He runs a hand over his face wearily. "What in the hell do I do now? How can I make her see… God." He dips his head again, tears thick on his lashes.

I wrap my arms around him. "You take it one step at a time, one day at a time, openly and honestly. Big brother, you have a tendency to try and play Superman…you don't need to with us…we love you already, no matter what. It's the same for her. She's hurting right now, Dave. Show her that you hurt, too, or whatever else you're feeling. Start with that."

His voice is soft. "Thank you, Darrah."

"What are little sisters for? Go on," I say, nudging him towards the room. He smiles back at me, and enters. Donna joins me, and we watch as he sits down next to her and holds her hand, and she holds his.

We turn away, satisfied. "They'll find their way," Donna says with quiet conviction.

I nod. Because they will.


End file.
